The sky, too, is folding under you
by taniapretender
Summary: There are Pretenders among us. Geniuses, with the ability to become anyone they want to be. Before it all began, before the war and Hell and the demons, Dean met true evil.
1. Chapter 1

Part 1

"_**Soon The Road Will Burn  
Within A Distance Or A Second  
So Let The Silent Set  
This Nightmare's Just A Phase  
Swallow Your Tears And Try  
Not To Realize That  
This Chimera Is Real  
And Here To Freeze Your Feel...  
She Said The Road Will Burn  
Within A Distance Or A Second"**_

_**Nosfell Labyala and EZ3kiel, "Lethal Submission"**_

It was a good night. The bar wasn't so crowded that you couldn't make a quick escape if needed, but was enough so that you could easily be forgettable. It was Dean's night of choice for a good game of pool, and the safest way to quick, easy cash. The music was good, the beer was good, the company looked… well, promising, and the game was entertaining.

His current opponent was a young, fairly alcoholized, thirty-something male. Brown hair, broad shoulders, and he looked like he could hold his own in a bar fight –but not for very long. He wasn't very chatty; maybe more the loner type like Dean himself, something Dean definitely appreciated. If there was one thing that could kill the fun out of hustling someone else's money, it was being stuck for several games with the same gushing drunkass, having to put up with stories he had absolutely no interest in hearing.

The first game had been easy to lose, and Dean always enjoyed acting like the innocent, inexperienced player. Missing a couple of easy shots, showing that deep, useless concentration in the eyes, mouth caught between the teeth. In pool, winning against a good player wasn't _that _tough. But the trick here was to make sure you lost a game by enough points that it would encourage your victim to put money on the next one. The key was to have a chance to analyze your victim's game first hand, see how good he was, so you wouldn't raise the bar either too high or too low.

The bid wasn't too high for the second game, but Dean intended to win it just by a hair's breadth, so his victim would be willing to replay the game.

The party was almost done. One of Dean's striped balls remained on the table, along with two solids for his opponent, whose turn had just ended, leaving Dean with a great opening. Dean bent gracefully over the table, adjusting his hips to be as stable as possible, placed the cue right in front of the white ball, and hit it smoothly.

It hit his last stripe neatly, sending it straight into one hole, and skittered to a stop directly in front of the 8-ball near the left corner pocket.

Dean smirked, forcing himself not to look over his shoulder to savor his victim's amazement, and circled the table to place himself on the other end.

He bent over once again, placed his cue, raised his head slightly to look his adversary in the eyes and winked.

"Right corner," he announced, hitting the white ball strongly for the last time. It spun to the left toward the 8-ball, but caught it sharply on the side to send it skittering back to land in the right corner pocket.

"Looks like I still need to work on my right and my left, I guess." Dean smirked, straightening up.

The loser didn't look too happy, having just lost a hundred, but he didn't look like he was willing to start a fight over it, which was always good. The night was far from young, and Dean still wanted to gain another hundred from the guy.

"Double or nothing?" he suggested, one eyebrow raised, trying to look as innocent as possible.

"Like I'm gonna let you play me again! I ain't makin' the same mistake twice!" the mark answered. He got the hundred out of his wallet, lending the money to Dean, only to retrieve it slightly as Dean tried to reach for it.

"You're a good player. Shame we can't do this just for fun, see how good you are."

A quiet player _and_ a good loser? Dean looked at him appreciatively and reached for the money, hiding it away in his breast pocket, against his heart.

"Sorry, but I'm gonna call it a night. Long road ahead tomorrow. Nice playing you, though." He accompanied his words with a wave over his shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm sure it was," he heard his adversary reply before he disappeared out of the bar and into the night. 

_***_

The air was a bit chilly at this time of year in Minnesota, and Dean couldn't help but think of Sam, now a senior under the warm sun of California. The alley in which the bar was located was empty, the ground barely lit by the streetlamps. Dean took a deep breath to cleanse his lungs of the bar's foul air and stretched his neck a bit. The last hunt, a nasty, pissed off. yet completely run-of-the-mill ghost, had been tough on him. That little bitch had resisted capture _repeatedly_, and he was really looking forward to a good night's sleep, now that he actually had money to afford something else than a night in his car.

Grinning to himself, Dean felt the thick wad of money through his jacket once again, congratulating himself for the job well done. Not like there was anyone around to appreciate his efforts. His dad was on the other side of the country, working a job with another hunter – and Dean refused to dwell on the thought that his father would rather hunt with someone else, leaving him alone - and he currently had no one else to share his money with anyway.

Brushing off thoughts that were only stealing the opportunity of a peacefully alcohol-buzzed mind, he was reaching for his keys in his right pocket, when that _feeling_ came back. Sonuvabitch, but he'd felt like someone had been watching him for the better part of the last three days. The hair on the back of his neck rose abruptly, his senses sharpened, and his fingers itched, blood rushing through his veins, hands ready to reach for his gun. Something was definitely wrong.

And then he saw them: four muscle men in cheap suits, each one coming from a different direction, closing in on him. His first reflexes, drilled into his head by many years of training with an ex-marine, were to assess as much as he could about them before they got too close. Each of them around 300 pounds, between 6'0" and 6'2", more muscle than fat, packing heat if Dean was to trust his instincts. They were heading his way quickly, looking directly to him, and they apparently meant business.

"Oh, come on!" Dean breathed, ditching the idea of reaching for his gun. No way was a weapon gonna protect him against all four of them.

The four men were now circling him, close enough to prevent him from making a run for it, far enough that they still weren't within Dean's reach. Dean quickly glanced at all of them, assessing danger, and swallowed hard, seeing them tensing in preparation for the fight.

"Seriously," he insisted,"so not fair."

"Who said anything about a fair fight?" One of the goons grinned before nodding to the two people behind Dean.

"Alright, bring it on," Dean shot back, trying to sound as brave as could be, but knowing that the fight was a lost cause already. He'd been here before; at the very least there was no way he'd get off unhurt.

He didn't even have the chance to hold out against them. The three men behind him jumped on him at the same time and quickly, effectively locked his arms, two of them holding one each in a firm, vicious grip, the third one blocking his legs with his feet, preventing him from kicking anyone.

Panic rushed through him as he saw the first man grin fiercely, and his breathing quickened as he realized there was nowhere he could go.

The worst part wasn't the bad situation, though. He'd been attacked by angry townspeople from whom he'd stolen a girlfriend or wife for the night. But he'd never actually been here before. He'd never met anyone from this place, and certainly hadn't had time to piss anyone off. What the hell could these thugs possibly want from him?

He felt the grip on his limbs tighten brutally as he saw the man in front of him reach inside his pocket and pull a small syringe out.

"Dammit!" Dean growled, struggling to get free, adrenaline making him feel shaky and slightly high.

Approaching menacingly, the man firmly grabbed onto Dean's short hair, pulling his head to the side, revealing his exposed and unprotected neck, his jugular pumping blood furiously to keep the adrenaline flowing from his brain to his organs.

The bite of the needle was the last thing he remembered before falling into oblivion. 

*******

The first thing Dean noticed when he woke up was how _freaking amazing_ he felt. Like he'd been sleeping for a month, while someone had massaged his entire body, unknotting every single one of his muscles, from his toes to the muscles of his forehead. He hadn't felt that good and deeply relaxed since that hunt in Arizona, a couple of years ago. Under the influence of a ghost, he'd been completely rabid and would have hurt himself if John hadn't knocked him out with a solid dose of –

_Lorazepam. Crap. The alley fight. _

Well, he couldn't _really_ call it a fight. He hadn't had time to do much of that, although he really regretted not having been able to break at least a rib or two.

Also remembering how he'd felt _after_ waking up two years ago, he slowly and carefully lifted his head, body still down, waiting to see if he would feel dizzy or sick. His blurry vision took some time to adjust to a crude and violent light coming from the ceiling.

_Huh. Apparently no one here's concerned about the electricity bill. _

There was one thing that the bright light didn't seem to do, however, and that was warm up the atmosphere. The A/C was apparently on full, the cold artificial breeze caressing his bare arms and –

_Wait. Bare?_

"Oh, fuck me!"

Stripped of his leather jacket, three layers of shirts and t-shirts, jeans, boots and socks, Dean had apparently been given thin, black cotton elastic pants. No button, no string, nothing he could ever use as a tool, unless he tore the fabric into strips.

Okay. So, someone had stripped him of all his belongings and had dressed him like a doll.

And thrown him into a completely unfurnished cell, minus the bucket in the corner.

_Gee, thanks._

_These people seriously need to work on their host skills._

The wall he was currently using as support was grey and smooth, cold under his touch, probably like anything else in the room. The wall facing him was apparently made of the same material. Both were curved and became ceiling at some point, so that it looked like it was only one big wall beginning somewhere, running above his head only to dive back into the cement ground on the other side of the cell. The two other walls, to his left and right, were only brownish bars, thick and built into the ground and ceiling.

Having no way of telling the time or even the _day_, Dean could only rely on his growling stomach to deduce that he had been out for a while. His mouth tasted foul and his throat felt dry, the need for water making it painful whenever he tried to swallow his excess saliva.

He raised his eyes once more, looking for – there it was: the camera. How could he have missed it before? Its small red light, going on and off, the only evidence that there was at least one set of eyes, somewhere, watching and, yeah, probably enjoying, what it was recording.

"Hey!" Dean yelled, silently hoping the camera had a microphone, but knowing they would see his lips move anyway.

"HEY!" He repeated, his voice stronger now that he'd tried it. "So tell me, what number do I dial for room service in here?"

He waited a hundred and seventy-two Mississippi's before realizing they wouldn't come, and tried adjusting his back into the cold and crooked wall as he drifted back off to sleep. 

_***_

He woke again at some point. He yelled some more, paced across his small cell, and tried cataloguing every supernatural being he knew, first in alphabetical order (Acheri Demon, Angiak, Banshee, Black Dog), then by killing method (Arrow and Bow, Beheading, Bow and Arrow, _oh, wait_), and then by the state he'd met them in; none of it worked, and he always had a part of his mind on the questions roaming his head.

He thought about doing push-ups, but that was just so_ cliché_. Instead he tried remembering when the last time he'd talked to his father was, and how long exactly it would be before anyone would notice he'd disappeared.

He looked at the dirt under his fingers, then at the pattern of the veins under his skins.

He counted the hair on his left arm, and then his right arm, and then counted again. He did a statistical analysis of the data to conclude that his right arm was significantly more hairy than his left.

He told his stomach to _shut the fuck up_, and when that didn't work, he tried tricking it by thinking about awesome, greasy food. He thought about bacon, and cheeseburgers with extra onions. Onion rings and cheese bites. M&M's and pancakes. Beer and whiskey. Black coffee and pie._ Mmm, pie._

When, after an undetermined amount of time, he woke up to find a bowl of sloppy grey mush, he didn't question it and swallowed it down like he'd never eaten anything else in his life. 

_***_

It was probably a few days before Dean even met anyone. He ran out of ideas to occupy himself soon enough. He tried to take refuge in sleep, but it was tough to feel _tired_ when you just sat around for the better part of the day. Sometimes he'd wake up to find the bucket emptied, or a new bowl of the same tasteless mush that, surprisingly, he found oddly nutritious.

He remembered something a history teacher once said about Nazi interrogation methods. How they'd leave prisoners all alone in a room with no one to talk to, nothing at all to do, to drive them crazy with boredom, so that when interrogation came, they were so eager to talk to someone they would just say _anything_. Dean figured there wasn't much he knew that could interest anyone, except if his kidnappers wanted to become hunters. Yeah, right. He highly doubted that.

And then, as he was reciting the complete lyrics of "And Justice for All" in his head for the fifth time, these _guys_ came in. Three of them. Two looking exactly like the ones who'd taken him in that alley, cheap suits and shiny shoes, looking like they'd just bitten into a lemon. One of them, a black guy, had a military haircut, and looked healthy as a horse. Flat belly, straight posture, white teeth. The other one had a beer belly, not much hair on his head, and his teeth were nicotine-stained.

Now the third one, he was something else. Nice suit, probably very expensive, and a smug look on his face, looking like he felt like he owned the world. He couldn't have been more than 40, and Dean knew that if looks were indeed as deceiving as they said, he was probably concealing some muscle under his suit. He approached Dean, while the two others hung back, probably ready to jump if he attempted anything.

Dean noticed the man's left hand was gloved, thumb missing, and raised an eyebrow in interest.

"I hate to break it to you, but your welcoming committee sucks pretty bad. I almost got bored." He tossed out his words, because apparently he'd just lost a fucking staring contest or something, judging from the smug look that had made its way from the guy's mouth to his eyes. He looked down at his dirty nails, pretending to be very interested by them, putting on a show.

"Trust me, soon enough, you'll look forward to being alone." The other guy smiled, and Dean wished it could be just the two of them, so he would have a fighting chance at swiping that smug smile off his face. His dad had taught him better though, and there was no way he'd try making a stupid move and get _hurt_, blowing off his chance at a real fight once he could corner one of them.

"Trust you? Sorry, buddy. My mom told me I shouldn't trust strangers." Dean smirked.

"Funny. I didn't think you'd remember that much about her. After all, you weren't even five when she died, were you Dean?"

Dean's smirk reduced to a thin line of pressed lips instantaneously.

_What. The. Fuck._

"Oh, that's right," the other went on. "I know everything about Mom, and Dad, and little Sammy Winchester. I know about YOU, Dean."

"What do you want?" Dean spat from between his teeth.

"I want everything. But that's beside the point, I think. Regardless, that is a _very_ good question, Dean, and I'm glad you asked. You'll soon find out a very important truth: that what _I_ want is everything that should matter to _you._"

Dean looked at the two muscle men, then back at his captor, nodding his head, smirk back on.

"Is that a rehearsed speech? Am I supposed to be impressed? Applause, maybe?"

The bastard smiled back, then looked at his two goons and tilted his head. Dean barely had time to move before each one grabbed an arm and jerked him up, dragging him out of the cell. 

*** 

"Oh my GOD, SAM! That is AMAZING!" Jess screamed as she jumped on Sam, from behind, almost knocking the laptop off the table as she did so.

"Woaah, okay there," Sam laughed, kissing her hair and returning the hug. "Calm down, baby, it's not that big of a deal. It's just an interview, nothing's sure yet."

"Not that big of a deal?!" Jess gasped. "Are you serious? Sam! A full ride to LAW SCHOOL! You're a genius! And they're totally gonna give it to you anyway."

Sam rolled his eyes, a bit embarrassed by her reaction.

"I'm in love with a genius!" she repeated, sitting on his lap to get a better look at the e-mail he'd just received, confirming the interview that was scheduled in a week. She shifted a leg, straddling him.

"You're in love, huh?" Sam asked, putting his arm around her slim waist, hand going under her shirt, caressing her soft, warm skin.

"Mm hmm," she nodded, smiling as she reached for a kiss.

God, how he loved her. She was everything he could have hoped for. Kind, loving, funny, smart… He'd been thinking about it for a while now, but he was starting to understand she might well be 'the one'.

"So," she said, after breaking the kiss. "This calls for a celebration."

"I don't know, Jess…" he shook his head.

"Sorry, Sam. You don't get to say no. You've studied more than enough, and you've worked your ass off ALL summer. You got some heavy partying to catch up on before burying your head in your books again, doofus."

"Well, yeah… But when I thought about celebrating this with _you_ tonight, what I had in mind definitely didn't involve any of our friends…" he replied, hands back under her shirt, caressing her back up and down, firmly keeping her close to him.

She was leaning over him in this position, and he had to reach up a bit to grab her lower lip with his teeth gently. She pressed her breast against his torso, feeling his erection trapped inside his jeans.

"Is that so?" She smiled against his mouth. She moved a hand between their bodies, stroking his chest up and down, getting lower each time, but never close enough.

She laughed hotly when she heard a moan escape his lips.

"Well," she added, "I'm sure we can move the party to tomorrow night."


	2. Chapter 2

_Part 2_

To compensate for the metaphorical dark he'd been kept in, Dean had learned a _lot_ in a very short span of time.

He learned that his _handler_ was named Mr. Lyle. The two goons always accompanying were Jim, who always smelled like cold ashes, and Willy, Mister Perfect White Teeth. Dean tried to knock Willy out once, which resulted in both Willy and Jim getting very pissed and retaliating. It had hurt, a lot.

He also learned that at some point, Lyle would probably want something from him. But for now, apparently, he just wanted to have fun. So Dean had not had anything explained to him, had not been asked or told anything other than to behave, and was still wondering _what the fuck_ was going on. He hadn't dared ask quite yet.

The most significant piece of information Dean learned was that Lyle appeared to like playing with the jumper cables much more than anything else. He got very bored, very quickly, whenever Dean's face was shoved into a bucket of freezing water until his lungs burned, quite à la James Bond. Lyle didn't even take an interest when Dean happened to be taking a beating by either Willy, Jim, or both at the same time. However, whenever jumper cables happened to be around, Dean's hands tightly bound above his head to the ceiling, his feet barely touching the floor, Lyle was _always_ participating.

And under all his screaming and hollering, Dean understood why. When he was beaten and brutalized, it sure hurt like all hell, but he could at least focus on parts of his body that _didn't_. He'd tell his body to shut the fuck up, and would pretend like it wasn't anything worse than a regular hunt gone bad. After having been electrocuted for any amount of time, however, it got so bad that there wasn't a single spot in his body that didn't feel like it was going to explode. Everything hurt, from the tip of his toes to his freaking hair. And it wasn't just skin and bones, either. Sometimes he was convinced he could actually _feel _every organ, every muscle, and every nerve hurting.

Dean realized what Lyle's game was only when it was already too late to do anything about it. By then, he was already shaking with fear every time he heard the footsteps approaching, his muscles twitching as soon as he saw them.

Today - or tonight? - was one of those days. Jim and Willie had picked him up, almost dragging him out of the cell, and he'd known what was going on as soon as they got to the torture chamber; as was usual when jumper cables were involved, the room was clear of any table, chair or any torture device, save for a pair of chains hanging from the ceiling, and the battery and cables in the middle of the room.

Dean had been through this so many times he'd lost count, and he'd probably think it monotonous if it didn't hurt so much each time. He knew what kind of pain to look forward to, but somehow couldn't find the strength to struggle. What was the point, anyway? Even if he weren't as weak as he was, even if he could find the strength to escape Jim and Willie, there was no way he'd make it further than outside the door. So instead he let them pull his arms up and close the cuffs, instantaneously re-opening the wounds around his wrists, where the same cuffs had cut him not so long ago.

When they finished fastening the cuffs, his arms loosely hanging above his head, they clipped the cuffs to a chain hanging down through a ring screwed into the ceiling. They pulled sharply on the free end of the chain and fastened it to the wall, jerking his body upward, his feet barely touching the floor.'. They left the room, leaving him on his own, with nowhere to go.

Dean knew that the longer they left him hanging, the sooner his muscles would tense and start throbbing. He knew that the torture would be much more efficient if he was already in pain, that there was no way he could relax through the pain if his body was already aching by the time Lyle arrived. He tried making his body as loose as possible, but the pain in his wrists was excruciating, and he had to balance the pain between the weight of his entire body on his wrists or in his toes.

At some point, when he thought his toes couldn't cramp _more_, Jim and Willie came back, followed by Mr. Lyle.

"Good morning, Dean," he smirked, his right hand massaging his left.

_Morning_ it was, then.

Dean didn't even bother responding to Lyle's snarky remarks anymore. He knew there was no point: it only ever brought more pain, and there was only so much pain even Dean could take. Plus, he had to admit it, Lyle was kinda good at that verbal jousting game, sometimes even more so than Dean, and that hurt his pride, somewhere deep down. Not that Dean had a lot of pride to hang on to these days: he'd already begged, and cried, and puked in front of Lyle, and there wasn't much else that Lyle had to see from him.

"Oh, Dean, lost in your thoughts again?" Lyle said, pretending to try to hide his smile. "Don't worry. I have just what we need to bring you back."

Dean received the first jolt unprepared. He hadn't seen it coming; Lyle was usually more chatty, loving the long monologues, trying to torture him mentally for what always seemed like hours before he tried any sort of physical approach. Since his muscles were already tensed, the electricity running through his nerves cramped every single one of them, and Dean didn't even bother with the effort of containing his screams. He was way past the pretense of being strong and tough and masculine anyway.

"Now, that's a sound I like to hear."

Dean didn't really realize how long the torture had lasted. He guessed they just stopped when he was too close to passing out, not wanting him to miss out on any of the 'fun'. After Jim put the cables back on the floor, Lyle motioned to him and Willie to leave the room, and he approached Dean again, massaging his thumb-less, gloved hand yet once more.

Dean was dripping with sweat, his body still shaking, tremors running through his muscles. His heart was beating fast, but he knew it was just the adrenaline pumping through his veins; he'd been subjected to that torture several times, and he'd never felt any changes. The electricity in the cables probably had a very low current, and only the high voltage was meant to hurt. Dean tried not thinking of the possible reasons why they didn't want him to experience any permanent physical or cerebral damage.

"Oh, Dean, look at you," Lyle taunted once again, his head close to Dean's, looking up into Dean's tired, almost absent eyes. "Are you feeling okay?" The intense, focused look in Lyle's eyes was like copper, or a red flame burning inside them, hypnotizing Dean. Leather touched Dean's abused chest. "You just have to say it. You don't have to be so strong."

Dean tried looking away, but there was nowhere else to look; only the monotony of grey, thick walls. Lyle's eyes had something mesmerizing to them. It wasn't that he couldn't look away; it's that something was driving him to look into them. Making him want it.

"Why do you always wait so long, Dean?" Lyle circled his body, and Dean shivered as he felt the man right behind him, breath caressing his nape. "Don't you think you've already proven to us that you're a strong boy?" Leather hand on his skin again, this time making contact with the tremors in his lower back. It was somehow soothing him, in a wicked way. Human contact wasn't something he was able to enjoy these days, not without pain immediately following. "Don't you think you've proven it to _me…_?"

The pain was everywhere; it was so intense Dean couldn't remember what it was like to _not_ feel it. And when his whole brain was screaming for release, when his body was so abused that it wasn't even responding to him anymore, there was nothing else he could focus on; not the way Lyle was making physical contact that he would have shaken off in the outside world. Not the way he was letting the words sink into his subconscious without stopping them. And he was certainly not realizing that he wasn't even protesting anymore.

"Come on, Dean, it can't be that hard." Lyle ran his hands along Dean's sore and abused arms as he was whispering in his ear. "We can play this game the whole day if you want, but we both know how it's going to end." The hands ran all the way to his elbows, and back to Dean's nape, and the shivers it sent made Dean wince in pain again. "It always ends that way. Why fight it?"

Dean closed his eyes, tears that he had been holding in ever since the torture started finally breaking free from under his eyelids. The water stung against his skin, and when he opened them again, he could imagine them hitting the ground, shattering into millions of tiny droplets.

"Please."

"Mmph?" Lyle asked behind closed mouth, playfully, hand absent-mindedly roaming against Dean's back.

"P…please, Mr. Lyle," Dean stuttered. "Please untie me."

"See? It wasn't that hard, now was it?" Lyle smiled, back in front of him; a hand raised to his chin, causing Dean's shoulder to tense, pain once again shooting through his body. Their eyes connected again, Lyle's face softening in that faked concern he always wore after a torture session. His eyes, however, remained cold and calculating.

The fuckers had 'showered' him with a fire hose after their little session, which had only made it _that_ much worse. Now he was just trying to keep breathing in and out, fighting the nausea that came with the pain each time. Lying against one of the walls, his favorite spot, he tried to ignore the fact that he didn't even know how long he'd already been there. He hadn't even tried to fight back once.

_Tactical decision, _he lied to himself. 

_***_

The campus was busy, had been for a few weeks now that the semester had started again. It was a good thing, allowed him to blend in more easily, even if his looks weren't exactly inconspicuous ones, at least not in this kind of environment.

But it would do. It had to, because he didn't have the time to adjust and blend in.

It felt odd, having to move around so many people again, when he'd been hunting in remote parts of cities for so many years. He tried to fall back on his training, remembered what his training had taught him about blending in.

He would approach his victim without them noticing. This wasn't a hunt. This was a job for a killer.

***

The routine went on for so long that after a while, Dean wasn't sure he remembered what the sun on his skin felt like. He tried to remember the taste of alcohol, or the feeling of his baby purring on the road, but it all seemed so distant he almost wondered if he hadn't dreamed it all.

And then, one day, they didn't head right to the torture chamber like they usually did. Dean's heart was already beating pretty fast, adrenaline pumping in anticipation of what he knew was going to happen to him, his body already uncomfortable since he'd woken up with an erection, something that hadn't happened in a while, and he hadn't had the time to take care of it yet. As he realized he was going to be taken somewhere _else_, somewhere where he had _no way_ of knowing what would happen or how long it would be before he got back, panic settled in. Breathing suddenly became difficult, and his vision blurred. He tripped on his feet and caught himself on one of the sweepers – that's what they got called around here, he'd overheard– who apparently took it as an attack.

The immediate reaction was for both sweepers to pin him against the wall, each one holding an arm so firmly Dean could hear his bones protest. He was still struggling to breathe, his brain not yet registering his environment or the position he was currently in, his cock still pulsing under the thin cotton fabric. He was still trying to get away from Willy and Jim, when suddenly a hand closed on his throat, Lyle's body suddenly dangerously close to his own.

The contact of a gloved hand against his bare chest, the feeling so familiar, cleared his vision in a heartbeat, and he found himself staring into a pair of deep, blue mesmerizing eyes, their anger clearly identifiable as a threat to his own well-being.

"Cut. It. Out." Lyle hissed, tightening the grip around his throat for emphasis.

The tight lips turned into a smirk as Dean felt the other hand gripping his penis strongly, his body jerking in reaction to the sudden pain. Lyle raised an eyebrow and Dean tried to ignore the intrusion, knowing there was nothing he could say that would make the situation any better for him; so he tried to relax under the sweepers' hands, tried to breathe under Lyle's tight grip against both his cock and throat.

The hand released Dean's throat, who all of a sudden could breathe much more easily, and he wasn't sure if it was because he'd finally come back to his senses, or lost them completely.

He fixed his eyes on the floor, like he'd gotten used to doing ever since he understood it gave the sweepers one less reason to beat the shit out of him, and soon Jim and Willy released him. Lyle's hand was still on Dean's crotch, and if Lyle made a show of stroking it once or twice before removing his hands, Dean was sure neither sweeper noticed. They resumed walking, Dean now flanked on each side by one of them, both guiding him with their heavy hands on his shoulders.

The room they entered was much bigger than the torture chamber, and dwarfed his cell. Oddly, the room was bare except for a table and chairs at the center, and a single light dancing slightly over it. Why did everything have to be so _theatrical _in here?

"Sit down," Lyle ordered, and Dean complied. It was quite rare for him to be given the privilege of sitting down at a table while everyone else was standing up. It made him nervous.

Hands under the table, eyes fixed on an invisible spot, he sat there waiting for something, anything to happen. They had him wait around most of the time, but he usually wasn't sitting comfortably in a chair. _As comfortable as you can get in an iron chair, anyway._

When he heard the door open again some time later, he raised his eyes to meet the shape of a man he'd never met before. He'd only ever met Jim and Willy, Lyle, and a doctor that was making sure he healed enough before they administered any more abuse to his body.

When the stranger entered the room and got exposed to the shy light above Dean's head, Dean had the opportunity to get a better look at him. This man seemed a bit older than everyone else, maybe fifty-something. Contrary to what Dean would have expected, he didn't wear a suit, but black pants and a brown sweater, his red tie tucked under it. He had thin glasses that made his eyes look even smaller than they really were, and his grey hair was combed neatly.

He went directly to Lyle, ignoring Dean completely, which was his cue for him to fix his stare back on his spot on the table. He could only make out the hushed murmur of voices, not what was said, but he knew they were talking about him. It was all that was ever discussed, it seemed like.

Dean raised his head again when he heard the chair in front of him get pulled out from under the table, and met the eyes of the new guy in his life. The man stared back, his lips firmly pressed together, his expression unreadable.

"Hello, Dean," he finally spoke, and immediately Dean understood that he meant business, just like he'd understood the doctor was not to be trusted when Dean first met him. He had briefly thought, when he'd been introduced to him, that maybe he would help Dean out a bit, if not help him out completely; maybe he would help relieve Dean's pain, because that was usually what doctors _did_. He had been so very wrong that day.

Dean's confusion must have shown on his face, because the new man went on, "Looks like your thoughts are rambling a bit, doesn't it?" Even if the words appeared friendly to Dean at first, Dean was no fool. It had been a while since anyone had ever talked to him to say anything other than an order, but he was damned if he was going to let that false kindness fool him.

"My name is Doctor Grey, and I am here to chat with you for a while."

See? Another doctor. Still, Dean was intrigued and confused. Chat? What for?

He tried not to think about how the _Dean from before_ would have answered that, probably with some witty comment, like "Oh, a tea party, that's so thoughtful!"

"You're a smart person, Dean." Doctor Grey started. Dean stared, unsure if he was expected to reply, blush or turn to Lyle for any indication as to how he was supposed to be doing this.

"But you know that, don't you?" he then added, a false tone of camaraderie in his voice. "What I can't figure out, however, is why you put so much effort into hiding it."

Okay, Dean's attention was caught now.

"I went through your school records. And yeah, they were quite difficult to obtain, but that's beside the point. Only Bs and Cs, always staying under the radar. That's quite uncommon. What was it, Dean, did you not find the school material challenging enough for such a smart brain?"

Dean frowned, feeling ill at ease, and murmured, too uncomfortable to truly speak up: "I'm not that smart."

The doctor smiled.

"Oh, yes you are, Dean. We have a special name for people like you here. We call you a Pretender. Do you know what a Pretender is, Dean?"

Dean shook his head, feeling diminished. He didn't really like the idea of being treated like a little kid.

"A Pretender is a genius, Dean. Someone who is _so_ smart, _so _talented, that they can become anyone they want to be, in a heartbeat. Assume any personality, any disguise, and become that person. Tell me, Dean, have you ever pretended you were a cop, or a doctor?"

Dean nodded his head slowly.

"Of course you have. It's like a second nature to you, isn't it? It feels so _right_ to just let everything sink in, and become these people."

Apparently, the doctor seemed okay with going on like this forever, or maybe he was waiting for Dean to finally ask that one fucking question, so Dean did. He gathered courage he hadn't had for a while, and he finally opened his mouth.

"Is it the reason I'm here?"

His words were rewarded by a bright smile that made him want to crawl under blankets he hadn't had for an eternity.

"Very good, Dean," Grey praised. "Yes, this is why the Centre took such an interest in you."

_The Center?_ Was this where he was?

"See, Pretenders are extremely valuable assets. They're able to find solutions to problems that appear unsolvable to common humans. We have many clients who would pay a _lot_ of money if we found a solution to their problem for them. Your potential contribution is, without a doubt, something in which the Centre takes a definite interest."

Dean looked down at his hands again, then at Lyle, still standing a few feet away, listening to the entire conversation. He felt trapped, like a deer caught in headlights.

"What do you want me to do?" Dean asked, because he was pretty sure that this implied _no more jumper cables_, and he was ready to consider a _lot_ in exchange for that.

"You would perform simulations, under my supervision. You'd be given cases to analyze, sometimes impersonating someone who existed, sometimes by taking on an original personality, and once the answer was found, you would report it to me or Mr. Lyle, and move on to the next case."

Why did this seem like such a sweet deal to him? For one, he wasn't sure he was really capable of even doing this Pretender stuff, and he couldn't help but wonder what the consequences would be if he agreed to cooperate and then disappointed them, but they seemed to believe in him, and in here, that was all that mattered.

"You'd be given your own room, Dean. Much more comfortable than the cell you're currently in. Wouldn't that be nice?"


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

They moved him to a furnished room, with a bed and a table and a freaking _sink_, their way of patting him on the head and telling him what a good boy Dean was being.

To him, it felt more like he'd sold part of his soul to the Devil, but he wasn't completely broken, and even if he hadn't attempted anything yet, he still held out hope that one day, someday, he'd get out.

Dean was exhausted, and had a lot to think about that first night, but somehow, when he drifted off to sleep, the only picture in his mind was of Lyle's cold, verdigris eyes; the only feeling in his body was the ghost touch of Lyle's hands, a glove against his throat and a grip against his cock.

He didn't know when exactly they came to wake him up, but it was actually the first time he didn't have to wait for them to bother remembering he was there. They gave him the same food as usual, proof that some things definitely wouldn't change, and gave him ten minutes to freshen up and change.

When Jim and Willie came to pick him up, he almost asked why Mr. Lyle wasn't with them, but knew better. They wouldn't have answered anyway, and he didn't want them to believe that he felt uncomfortable being left with just the two of them, even if… No, there was no way it was true. He was okay.

They took him down the same path as the day before, and Dean expected they'd sit him on the same chair, at the same table, in front of the same big, empty room. However, when he entered the room, he found it completely refurnished. It had been split in four parts, each one of them having become what he could guess a new room. The table and chair were still here, however closer to the door, and a bunch of files were piled on the table. Two cameras were set up behind the table, already filming, and Dean didn't bother asking about _that_ either.

They sat him down at the table, and Willie left the room, leaving Jim alone, guarding the door. Dean's muscled twitched, his finger building into a fist as his brain immediately registering the change in the situation. The odds to finally get the upper hand in a fight had gotten considerably better for him, but he knew he had to play it safe. This was indeed the first time he'd been left with just one person to watch him, and it was probably a test: no doubt Willie was just outside the door waiting for him to do something stupid. He was _not_ going to let them take away the room and the bed.

Dean briefly pushed away these thoughts to another part of his brain, thinking he'd come back to it later. Now that he was probably going to be treated better he'd have the physical and mental force to think of an escape plan, but it was clear it wouldn't happen anytime soon; these people were anything but sloppy.

Ignoring the curious part of his mind which wanted to do nothing more than grab a file and read its contents, he scanned his new surroundings, not yet accustomed to them. His brain registered every security camera, the length to the door, any weapon he could use in a fight, the height of the ceiling, the apparent size of the air vents. Dean had no idea when or where he'd taken up this habit, but for as long as he could remember, he'd catalogued anything that could be either a potential threat or of help. He'd always attributed it to his hunting skills, knowing the environment in which he hunted more often than not meant the difference between life and death. But now, left on his own with nothing else to do other than think about these small things, he started wondering if he hadn't been, in fact, the only one to ever do that. Going back to memories of past hunts, he tried to find one that would prove Dad or Sam could have had the same knowledge as he did, but the more he tried, the more he realized that whenever they needed a quick escape, it was he who'd led the way, without even needing to look for the exit in the first place; whenever they'd needed something to help on the hunt, it was he who'd always known if and where they could find it.

Once again, Dean pushed that thought to a secluded part of his mind as Doctor Grey entered the room, directly going to him without noticing Jim. He smiled again, the smile not quite reaching the eyes, never, and sat in front of Dean. He wore the same kind of button-down sweater as yesterday, old and out of fashion, under his grey shirt.

"Good morning, Dean!" he started joyfully. "I hope you're as excited as I am to start. I take it you've started reading the folders in front of you?"

Dean looked back at Jim, checking to see if he was in trouble or not, and then turned back to the doctor.

"Um…no? How was I supposed to know…?" he started, before getting cut off by Grey.

"Oh, no, it's alright. I'd just assumed you'd be curious. My mistake."

The Doctor frowned, obviously startled by Dean's response. Dean wanted to get up and yell at his face that he wasn't a lab rat, that if Grey thought he could just make half-assed assumptions about him and expect him to do stuff without him being told, he was greatly mistaken. He wanted to show him how he would have broken all of his bones in two minutes not so long ago, before he'd been too scared of retribution. He wanted to make him choke on his stupid sweater, and lock him in a small cell like he'd been, monitoring his every move and ask him how he fucking _felt_ about it.

On the exterior, he remained very calm.

"Well, in the future, whenever you are seated at this table with a file in front of you, I want you to read it before I arrive. Do you understand, Dean?"

"Sure," Dean shrugged, not liking the doctor's condescending tone, but immediately noticing in his voice the implications of disobedience.

"Well, go ahead, open the first one."

The file was full of articles of a man who had killed two little girls, a horrible crime committed ten years ago. There was also the full police report- and Dean refused to wonder how the Centre had gotten their hands on that one – and several mugshots of the man. Dean read everything thoroughly, then closed the file and pushed it in the middle of the table, waiting for further instructions; when none came, he looked at the doctor, who had probably been studying him the whole time.

"I don't…" Dean started, his voice weak and hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again: "I don't understand what you want me to do with this… "

"I think you do, Dean." The doctor responded calmly.

Dean searched in his mind for a clue, trying to think of what the Centre could possibly want from him at the moment. Did they want him to solve a murder? His mind wandered back to one of the articles describing the execution of the killer – no, this murder had already been solved ages ago.

He thought back to the conversation he and the doctor had had the day before, and something came back to him.

"_A Pretender is a genius, Dean. Someone who is so smart, so talented, that they can become anyone they want to be, in a heartbeat. Assume any personality, any disguise, and become that person."_

"Oh! Hell, no!" Dean said, his eyes going wide, his body shrinking back in his seat. He hadn't even realized he'd spoken the words aloud until he heard the doctor reply.

"Now, Dean, these are words I don't want to hear from you." He said, ever so calmly. "If I ever hear that again, there will be consequences. Do you understand me, Dean?"

Dean was still staring, and while his brain automatically registered Jim approaching the table, his thoughts were fully focused on the file in front of him.

The doctor rose from his seat and bent over the table, a cold hand clutching around Dean's wrist over the file.

"Do you understand, Dean?" the doctor repeated, his pale eyes cold and his voice sharp.

Dean sensed Jim right behind him, his body immediately tensing at the personal intrusion from both sides.

"Yes, sir," he replied, letting out a small breath as Grey sat back in his chair. He tried not to think about the many times he'd said those words before. They'd always been spoken out of respect, admiration and trust. Now, they weren't anything more than two meaningless words ripped out of him by force, two little words meant to sooth a threat and keep him pain-free as long as he could.

"I just… I don't know how to do it," he admitted, moving on and ignoring Jim, who'd stayed behind him, his shadow looming over the file in Dean's hand.

"It's alright; I'll guide you through it. I don't expect it to be a success on your first try, but you will do your best."

When Grey didn't continue speaking, Dean realized some kind of answer was expected out of him, so he briefly nodded, his hands clutching the manila folder.

"Now, tell me: do you have all the articles in mind?"

"Yes."

"Good. Close your eyes."

Dean, reluctant at first, chanced a brief glance at the security camera, then at one of the cameras recording the session. He closed his eyes, trying to be as relaxed as possible, and waited for further instructions. Dr. Grey must have waved at Jim to go back to guarding the door, because he felt the presence behind him moving away. His body relaxed more without him even noticing.

"I want you to empty your mind, make it clear of everything that is not of our concern right now. I want you to picture the room in your mind. Do you picture it?"

Dean nodded.

"Good. Now, I want you to get rid of everything but us, and these files. Can you do that?"

Dean frowned in concentration, trying to picture an empty room with just him, the doctor and the files, almost like the day before. The doctor had to have known he'd succeeded from seeing his features relax, because he went on:

"Good. Now I want you to focus on what you read. Think about this man, everything you read about him. Let it sink in. Let the information enter your brain. Let his traits penetrate your skin. Open up to him, Dean. Allow yourself to feel whatever it is you might be feeling. When you're in this room alone with me, there is no feeling that is not appropriate; there is no situation that is not permitted."

Dean tried to let the voice guide him. He focused on what he'd read, remembered the pictures of the man, the way he looked, his haunting eyes and gruesome smile. He tried to think about the murders, how he walked through the deserted park twice, sitting down next to this little girl, started chatting with her. He pictured the little girl getting grasped, a moment of inattention from a parent being all it had taken. His mind went back to another part of the article, describing the place he'd kept the little girl in for a week, before she'd been killed. He imagined the old, rank bed, the grey, cold walls and the heavy metal door. He pictured him walking in every day to satisfy his horrible, bestial needs.

"Dean? Are you here?"

Dean nodded, fist spastically clutching the fabric of his pants.

"How do you feel?"

Dean swallowed and chewed slightly on his lips. His hands were clammy and shaky, and his breathing uneven and laborious.

"I'm… I'm scared," Dean realized, trying vainly to calm his heartbeat.

"It's okay, Dean, remember, you're in a room alone with me. You're safe. Tell me: what are you afraid of? Getting caught?"

"No, I already got caught… I'm scared of what will happen. I'm scared it'll hurt."

"You're afraid of dying?"

"No. I'm scared of when he's going to come back. He came three times, already, and it hurt. I want my mom and dad. I wanna go home," Dean whispered, subconsciously dragging his knees under his chin, hands clasped around his legs.

"Dean, no. You're not… Dean, come back."

Dean frowned again, not understanding. Come back? Where? There was nowhere to go, he was all alone on that musty bed, in that small, cold room, and _he_ would soon be back to hurt him again.

"Dean! Are you hearing my voice?"

Dean nodded

"Focus on it. Use it as a thread to guide you. Picture the room you're in, and then make it go away. You can do it, it's easy. Remember that room in your mind, just the two of us? Go back there, Dean. I want you to go back there, do you hear me?"

Dean concentrated and found that room. He pictured the files, and Doctor Grey's familiar sweater, and his own grey pants, and the cold iron chair on which he was sitting. His breathing evened out, and soon the feelings disappeared.

"Okay, Dean, open your eyes."

Dean almost jumped, shocked to realize there was more to the room he was in than just a desk and two chairs.

"Do you know what happened?" Grey asked.

"I became her; one of the little girls," Dean realized.

The doctor nodded.

"Yes. You did. Do you know why?"

"I… I'm not sure."

"Try. It's important that you don't hide anything."

"I think I was too scared to focus on him. I think it was easier to relate to her, because…" Dean hesitated.

"Yes?"

"Because she was locked up somewhere she didn't know, and she was scared and hurt and alone," Dean replied, ashamed to admit that he'd had these feelings – _still_ had most of them.

"It's okay, I was almost expecting it. It's always easier to go back to what we know and can relate to, Dean, but it doesn't mean you have to do it. If this happens again, I want you to retreat slightly and do the part between _your_ feelings and the feelings of the person you're becoming. I want you to lock those feelings away and focus on the job, okay?"

Dean nodded, wiping off the sweat on his palms on his pants.

"Good," the doctor approved. "Now tell me what you understand of the process you just went through."

***

That first day, Dean tried three times to complete what he realized was a simulation, before he was actually able to do what was required of him. Grey guided him through the four smaller rooms that had been installed overnight, each one a key location from the case: the room in which the girls had been kept, the prison cell, the law court. When he was mentally exhausted and wanted nothing more than sleep, they gave him a test to assess is IQ, and then fed him before sending him back to his room.

Even after 20 years of hunting, Dean realized that what he'd just experienced was probably one of the scariest things he'd ever felt. At the end, when he'd truly become that killer, he'd been able to feel the lust and desire, as well as an urge to kill which, even for a hunter, was so alien that he'd been scared of himself.

On the other hand, he now had a more reliable sense of day and night, since he was allowed full nights of sleep and entire days of hard, exhausting work. He could count them, and almost pictured himself drawing little sticks on the walls to remember them, but thought that'd be too depressing.

All in all, he knew days were passing by, and he was always so tired, way too exhausted to even take the time to think about anything other than the simulations. He hadn't thought back to that escape plan he'd put at the back of his mind, nor had he thought about what he could do to stay sane in this hellhole. He often found himself using the technique Doctor Grey had taught him: whenever he was alone, too worn out to think about anything, he'd go to that room and empty it, even get rid of the doctor. There, he'd add whatever he was missing: Dad, Sam, the car. He drifted to sleep with a new and improved way of picturing himself driving his baby – one that was way more effective than just random memories.

He soon came to realize that sleeping was the only activity that kept him from _pretending_. It became so natural that he wouldn't even need Grey to guide him there, and he would often already be deep in a simulation when the doctor entered the room. Coming back, however, was always more difficult, and he still needed the doctor for that, his grasp on reality ever so weak and distant.

They kept him so busy there was no time left for torture, which is probably why he didn't see Mr. Lyle all that often. He sometimes came by to observe him, check on his progress. Dean thought about the cameras that were always recording the sessions, and about how all Lyle had to do was watch them if progress was really all he was interested in.

At first, all the simulations were about solved cases, the only exercise being to become that person and draw conclusions that could be cross-checked with the facts. He'd caught serial killers that had already been caught, or enhanced security on planes that had already been enhanced twenty years ago. Dean wondered if he was being tested, or if this was common training. He wondered how many other pretenders there were out there, or if he was the only one in the Centre. And, for that matter, if this was the only Centre.

Then, one day, they gave him an original case: Mr. Lyle himself came down and presented it, telling him that a very important company had hired the Centre to examine the security of one of their building and check for eventual breaches. Dean solved the simulation in 5 hours, pointed out the one breach to Lyle and tried to ignore the satisfied look on his face. That night, when he went to bed, Dean couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it, that he hadn't been given all the variables of the problem.

Over the days, the feeling grew, and eventually became a part of him.


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

And then, one day, Grey came with a new simulation. At first glance, it wasn't anything out of what had become Dean's ordinary: he'd been asked to find a young boy who'd run away. Dr. Grey had told him the parents had hired the Centre's services to find him, since the police couldn't find anything, and Dean was their only hope of ever seeing him again.

So Dean settled down at his iron table, file in hand, and became the boy. It hadn't taken long for him to realize that the boy wasn't a runaway, and Dean couldn't identify his feelings as anything other than sheer terror at the idea of being found. These were the tears of a boy who missed his family, who wished nothing more than to see them again. Tears of a boy who didn't have the time to grieve the loss of a loved one, because he knew he'd be the next victim if he were found.

Dean had always known the Centre wasn't the good guys. But somehow, at some point, he'd let himself believe that this sweet trade he'd been offered, a room and a bed for his services, wasn't so bad, and that his soul remained, in fact, still whole. He'd helped the Centre make good money by improving security and finding stolen money. Only that simulation had finally shed some light on that feeling that wouldn't leave him alone: everything he'd been told was a lie. This little boy was not running away from his family, but from people who wanted to make sure he wouldn't go around telling people that his family had been murdered, probably by the Centre's very clients. There was no saying these "security improvements" might as well have been used for industrial espionage, and that money that he'd _found back_ was probably now in the hands of the Centre. Still, he could have cared less about that if the life of a scared little boy hadn't been on the line.

So Dean forgot what he knew about survival instinct. He ignored the first threat Dr Grey had ever made, forbidding him to ever say _no, _and had flat out refused to give any result that day.

They beat him down, broke a rib or two, and threw him back in the old cell, but he didn't back down. That little boy was going to live, even if it meant he'd die.

_***_

"Let's get this party staaarted!"

"Yes, Tyler. Nice to see you made it," Jess laughed, rolling her eyes at the behavior of Sam's roommate from freshman year. "Why don't you come in and put your… Is that a _keg?_ Did you bring a _keg_ to the party?" She asked, resisting the urge to close the door back on Tyler.

"Damn straight I did. What's wrong with that?"

"Tyler. This isn't a _frat_ party. It's just a little celebration between friends," Jess scowled, closing the door behind him as he entered the apartment.

"I know, but Sam needs to loosen up, you know that as well as I do."

"Oh, so you brought a _keg_ just because you had Sam's best interests in mind, huh?"

"Absolutely!"

"Okay, Tyler. You win. But let me warn you: anyone pukes, cleaning's on you."

She invited him to join the other guests in the living room, happy to see Sam deep into a conversation with two of their friends. It was nice to see him relax a bit.

She went back in the kitchen to heat the pizzas, but the doorbell rang again before she had a chance to put them in the oven.

"Professor Kensington… Did Sam invite you to the party?!" Jess smiled at the man standing in the doorway.

"Hello, Miss Moore," the professor smiled warmly at her. "A party? No, I wasn't aware. I just heard about the interview and just thought congratulations were in order."

"Well, Sam's gonna be very happy to see you. You should come in. I'm sorry if this seems a bit too… childish for you," she started, feeling embarrassed that a teacher, albeit a young one, would witness a students' party.

"Don't worry about that. I was in college once too, you know. I've had my fair share of partying. I must confess: I do miss it sometimes. It'll be refreshing for me to deal with another kind of scene than golf courses and boring nights sipping brandy by the fire lounge," he joked, loosening his tie and unfastening the button of his collar.

She led him to the living room where Sam was still deep in an argument, and it took him a while to notice that a new guest had arrived.

"Professor Kensington!" he jumped when he finally did. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, Sam, it's so nice to feel welcome!" the professor joked, giving Sam a quick handshake, then pulling him in for a hug. "And I guess you can finally call me Jerry, now that you're not a student anymore."

"Fine - Jerry." Sam said lightly, feeling the unfamiliar name roll off his tongue. "I'm very happy to see you, actually. I wanted to thank you for all the help and support you've given me."

"Nonsense, Sam. You've been one of my greatest students, and it was an honor to be able to help you rise."

Sam blushed at that comment, aware that anyone in the room had heard it. Sam's friends were by now used to him excelling in everything he applied himself to, but he still felt out of place when he was being singled out like that.

"Well thank you so much, _Jerry_," Jess laughed, arriving between the two men. "Now he's gonna be _impossible_ to live with."

Sam pouted at her comment, just in time to get his picture stolen by a friend on his telephone.

"Hey! Give a man a warning!" he joked, playfully giving the guy a push in the shoulder.

Jess took Sam by the waist, pressing herself against him, and turned back to the professor.

"Mind taking one of us?"

"Of course not," he smiled.

She handed her phone over to him, and paused with a big smiled plastered on her face. Giving one look round at her boyfriend, she shoved an elbow in his ribs when she noticed he was making no effort to look good for the picture.

"Okay. Here we go!"

The sound of a plate falling and breaking on the floor startled Jess, and she turned to yell at her guests to please, be more careful.

"Hold on. I want one too. To remember you by, when you become a hot-shot lawyer and forget all about your old, boring teacher!" the professor joked. He dug his phone out of his pocket, and quickly snapped a shot of the couple, smiling happily at the camera.

_***_

That night, Mr. Lyle paid him a visit. He was shackled to the wall, which was new, but he figured that it was all part of whatever plan Lyle had in his sick, twisted mind, since he showed up alone for the first time since they'd been introduced.

Dean was expecting jumper cables again, or even just a crow bar, but the only thing Lyle had in hand was a big envelope. He sat down next to Dean, not even fearing retaliation, knowing even breathing was painful to Dean right then.

"Come to gloat?" Dean hissed, trying to straighten up a bit, not wanting to give Lyle the satisfaction of seeing him as such a mess.

"You should watch your mouth, boy. You were doing so well. Really. It's such a shame." Lyle shook his head, feigning concern.

"You can do whatever the hell you want, Lyle, I'm not gonna help you kill an innocent kid," Dean spat, wishing he could choke the life out of him. It wouldn't solve anything, and would probably make things worse, but it would be _so_ nice.

"You should be reasonable. Is it worth it, really?"

"Yeah."

Lyle sighed.

"I wished it hadn't come to this, Dean, but you leave me no other choice."

He grabbed the enveloped and reached for its contents, dropping it on the floor.

_Sam._

Pictures of his baby brother, some with a pretty blonde, some with other boys. These weren't just surveillance pictures. His brother wasn't just being watched. In each one, Sam and whoever else was in the picture were smiling genuinely; the person behind the camera was a friend to these people.

"Lyle, I swear if you touch him, I —" Dean started, only to be cut off by a sharp pain in his side.

Lyle had gotten closer, a hand firmly pressed to Dean's bruised and abused torso, his breath tickling Dean's skin, his teeth an inch away from Dean's ear.

"Do not threaten me, Dean. You don't want to play that game with me. You want to go on strike? Fine. But remember I know where dear Sammy lives. In fact, I have someone probably planning a barbecue with him right as we speak. And for every day you refuse to work, Dean, I'll make sure someone Sammy cares about dies. I'll make sure Sammy feels like his life is a living hell, that he's responsible for everyone around him dying. And when there's no one left, you want to know what I'll do?"

Dean swallowed painfully, tears streaming down his face despite his best efforts. He had thought things couldn't get any worse after what had happened to him just lately. He had been so wrong – this was worse than anything that had come before.

"When all there's left is your brother, I'll bring him in here, right next to you, and I'll make sure he experiences everything you've experienced so far, and more."

Lyle released the pressure applied to the wound, and closed his hand around Dean's nape, gripping tight.

"So. Do we have a deal?"

Dean swallowed hard, trying to ignore surfacing memories of Lyle's touch on his skin.

"Do we have a deal?" Lyle repeated, hissing through his teeth.

"Yes," Dean finally answered, voice broken, vision blurry through the tears. The grip tightened: not good enough. "… Mr. Lyle."

"Good boy," Lyle whispered in his ear. He released the grip, leaving the hand at the base of Dean's skull, massaging the abused shoulders. "Such a good boy. I wish it hadn't come to that, you know?" The hand roamed across Dean's back, the touch light and soothing, yet alien and heavy. "I didn't want you to have to worry about that, I swear," he went on; his free hand was now resting on Dean's thigh. "You know I only want to help, right?"

Dean sobbed. "Yes, Mr. Lyle." It was the answer he wanted to hear, Dean knew.

"You've had a rough day, haven't you?" Lyle soothed, sounding eerily sympathetic. Dean could have seen right through the act, if he had wanted. He'd been around Lyle long enough to know there was no such thing as sympathy from the man. But it wasn't what he needed. "Come on, it's okay. I know what you need." Dean let the words sink in, pretending this fake kindness was real. Lyle's gaze went to the security camera, and Dean followed it, instantly noticing that the red light wasn't flashing on and off like it was supposed to. They were alone.

The hand resting on the thigh started stroking it up and down, firm and possessive, warming the skin through the cotton pants. Dean closed his eyes, pretending he wasn't chained up to a wall, hurting. Pretending pictures of his brother weren't still sprawled out in front of him.

His breath hitched when the hand closed on his crotch, palming his cock. "It's okay," Lyle shushed once again, hot breath against his neck. The glove was still massaging his nape, running up and down his spine, relaxing his hands. His fist unclenched under the chains, and Dean let out a breath he'd been holding for an eternity.

The hand reached inside his pants, the loose elastic around Dean's hips allowing it to move freely inside them. It was warm and soft, strange and yet familiar. Dean hadn't jerked off, not since he'd been brought there, and he had somehow forgotten the feeling of a hand around his penis.

The stroking, that long, slow motion of up and down, up and down, up and down, was strangely synchronized with his own heartbeat. The faster the motion got, the faster his heart pulsed. Lyle was still beside him, his free hand resting against the small of Dean's back, and it felt heavy and meaningful. Dean's chin was resting against his chest, eyes closed firmly; breathing hard, trying to keep the thoughts at bay. His hands were closing into fists again, trying to grip sheets that weren't there, and every stroke that was too sudden made his breath rise too quickly, sending a jolt of pain through his abdomen.

"That's it," Lyle encouraged. He quickened the pace, his penis slick with pre-come. "See? I can take care of you. You just have to be a good boy."

Dean's face closed in a frown, trying to concentrate only on what his body was feeling; trying to block out the voice that kept eventually passing through the barriers, finding its way into Dean's mind.

Dean could feel his pulse beating against the heavy cuffs. He was getting lightheaded, the fast breathing forcing too much oxygen in his brain. Lyle must have noticed his laborious breathing and slowed down the pace consequently, stealing a moan out of Dean's throat.

Lyle's chuckle was cut off by the sound of rattling chains, as Dean tried to move his hands to close around his penis, taking control of the action. The sound grew louder as Lyle grabbed the chains and pulled on it. Dean's hands jerked backwards, pinned there by Lyle's firm grip on them.

Dean pushed back the thoughts of how wrong it was that he'd lost control over that too, and then the pace increased again, and suddenly Lyle was breathing against his skin, short of breath and bothered, and whispering words to Dean, encouraging him. Dean felt so lost and confused, the mixed feelings and emotions going through his body short-circuiting his brain, rendering him unable to process anything other than pain or pleasure.

His breathing got more erratic, his chest painfully complaining over the beating he'd taken not long ago, and his hands were trying to jump free of his chains, bruising his skin. His eyes were shut tight, his mouth slightly open, tongue dry and heavy. The guttural sounds emanating from his throat were of both pleasure and pain, Dean unable to tell where either came from.

And then, just as he was about to come, Lyle gripped the base of his cock tightly and Dean's vision cleared. He gasped in shock, his body shaking and almost feverish.

"Come on, Dean," he hissed in his ear, words echoing in his mind like a snake curling around its prey. "You know what I want to hear."

Dean was trying his best to control the animalistic sounds that came out of his throat, his mouth dry and his voice cracked. He licked the tears on his upper lip, salty and sweaty, and arched his hips into Lyle's hand.

"Please, Mr. Lyle," he whispered, vocal chords barely functioning.

"Yes?"

"I need to…" Dean had no rational thinking left. He didn't register the words coming out, or how ashamed he should have been for speaking them; the only thing in his system that raw, primal _need_. "I need to come."

"Now, Dean," Lyle taunted, stroking his penis very slowly yet firmly, tearing another whimper from Dean. "It's not really how it's done. Come on, try again."

_Christ._

"Please, Mr. Lyle… may I… may I come?"

"Good boy."

Everything came crashing down, Dean's back arching, his hands still pulled behind his back, shaping his torso at an awkward angle, like a man trying to draw a breath after too much time underwater.

Lyle didn't bother cleaning the come before leaving the cell.

***

"Sam?" Jess called, eyelids still heavy. "Baby? Come back to bed?"

"In a minute."

"Sam, it's 5 in the morning. What the hell are you doing up? In _sweatpants_?" She raised an eyebrow as she sat on the couch next to him, cuddling against his body.

"Nothing, just… going over some paperwork for the interview," he replied, still focused on the papers in front of him.

"Again, it's _5 in the morning_. Couldn't it wait? And why do you smell like you just went for a run?"

"Cause I did. I'm sorry I woke you up, baby," he apologized, turning to her to place a kiss on her forehead.

"You had another nightmare?"

"Nothing to worry about," he shrugged off, not wanting to dwell on the subject. He did _not _want to think about that.

"Sam, I'm kinda worried about these nightmares of yours. You've been getting them an awful lot, lately…"

"I… I guess I've just been stressed, okay? Just… go back to bed, baby. I'll join you in a bit."

She kissed him and left pretty much after that, leaving him to his own thoughts.

He reached for the phone on the table, going through his contacts list; his finger stopped as the cursor reached Dean's number. God, he wanted to call him so badly… But he hadn't in so long. It felt like calling to talk about nightmares would only prove that he was still that kid who needed his big brother to protect him.

No. He'd stopped being that kid when he got on the bus, leaving his family behind. 


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5

The nightmares started just after that. When Dean wasn't dreaming about Sammy, in this hellhole sharing his pain, he was dreaming about the little boy, asking him why he'd sold him out, or about all the monsters he'd ever hunted laughing back at him, telling him he might be human but he was no different.

So Dean tried to ignore his conscience and became a good boy. Did his simulations, always on time, always with results, and tried not to think about who got killed, whose life got destroyed, because he was too weak to do anything about it.

Dean was crying in his sleep, his mind trying to escape another nightmare, when he met Angelo. The guy had woken him up, allowing him to escape yet another nasty dream, and Dean realized it was a true favor. He was still sweaty and shaking, and it took him a full minute to notice this forty-something guy at the foot of his bed, head shrunk in his shoulders, eyes genuinely worried.

"Bad nightmares too?" he asked, voice slightly nasal and words sounding laborious. He looked confused and very smart at the same time, like he could see through Dean, or maybe more like a mirror, giving Dean a true reflection of himself.

"Yeah. Hey, buddy, how the hell did you get in here?"

A mischievous smile appeared slowly on the man's lips, his gaze drifting to the airvents.

"Won't they notice?" Dean asked then, alarmed at the idea of getting into trouble because some mentally challenged dude was paying him midnight visits.

The man vigorously shook his head. He got on the bed where Dean was seated and put a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder.

"It's okay," he said, "Angelo here. No more nightmares."

"So you're Angelo, huh?" Dean half smiled. "Hi, I'm Dean," he added, offering his hand to Angelo.

Angelo stared, confused, but Dean decided he wasn't going to pass up the chance to make a friend, so he ignored the whole thing and continued to smile.

"Dean sad," Angelo offered, "scared."

"Yeah, buddy. I am."

"It's okay. Angelo here. Go to sleep."

*******

Dean didn't see Mr. Lyle again, not for a while. At first, he was too busy with the simulations to notice the change, his mind tired and his body wary, but Lyle's absence was definitely leaving a hole in Dean's daily routine. Aside from Jim and Willie, who never talked, never really looked at him, he'd been the only one Dean ever saw before having been introduced to Dr. Grey. And if Dr. Grey didn't torture him like Lyle used to, the nightmares and fears that came from the simulations were, somehow, as rough on him as the pain from the torture had been.

At least when his body had been able to get some rest, it had hurt a bit less; but his conscience never left him.

Even so, no matter how long it was between two of Mr. Lyle's visits, he was always there, somewhere, in a corner of his mind. Dean didn't think about him, or bring up his name, or dream of him. He had too many other things in his mind to worry about. But when Dean's mind was more open to his subconscious, when he was just drifting to sleep, or just waking up, or when he was coming out of a sim, he'd feel something, like a shape out of the corner of his eye that would disappear if he tried to look there. And without even searching for an answer, he knew whose presence he was feeling, knew what that twist in his guts was telling him.

_***_

One day, while he was working on a sim, he met Mr. Lyle's sister, Miss Parker. His cock got instantaneously hard in his soft cotton pants as he traced the contours of her infinitely long legs with his eyes. He'd been pushing these kinds of emotions away for a while now, and he wasn't sure if the knowledge that this part of him was still alive was something to rejoice at or cry over.

He learned that there was another Pretender out there, Jarod, who'd escaped the Centre years ago, and Miss Parker had been put in charge of getting him back. Having no success, the Centre had decided Dean was more than ready to contribute to the effort, and Miss Parker and an old doctor named Sydney – who was, Dean decided, nothing like Dr. Grey – were to come visit him every day until he either succeeded in finding Jarod for them, or until it was agreed that Dean wasn't good enough for the task.

Dean felt his pride getting wounded just a little bit at these words, but decided he didn't really want to succeed anyway. Who'd wish this kind of life on anyone? So he talked a while with Sydney, who told him all he could about Jarod, his life in the Centre and the years after that, and then he talked with Miss Parker.

She was sublime; deadly beautiful, like a succubus attracting you into her claws and stripping you of your everything, leaving you raw and needy. Dean barely listened to her as she told him more about Jarod, and instead let his thoughts wander, thinking about the things he could do to her, wondering how much he could make her come, and if she'd scream his name or just shut her eyes and moan in the bed sheets. He remembered all these girls he'd met on the road, all those delicious nights, and realized he would have never gone for someone like her, so far out of his league; he wouldn't even have been attracted to the idea of her. Maybe her great body, but not the designer clothes, or the feeling of power and superiority that came from her.

Dean wanted to strip her bare and make her beg. He didn't know what that meant, the fact that he'd never been attracted by the idea of possessing someone before but was now. He tried not to think about how that was probably something Lyle would want, or anyone else in here. He tried not to think about the idea that maybe this place changed people, and in the end everybody wanted the same thing, to possess and control.

That night, he jerked off, eyes closed, trying to ignore that flashing red light watching him. It was messy and needy, rough and to the point. He didn't try to make it good, or make it last. He didn't even try to picture her with him as he drove his hand up and down his cock.

And when, after many laborious attempts, he managed to finally come, Lyle was still there, a blurry figure at the corner of his vision.

_***_

The day after that, he tried focusing more on the task at hand, and learned as much about Jarod as he could. His cock was still trying to get attention from Miss Parker, apparently, so he tried getting twice as deep in the simulation to ignore it, and soon found out that the reason behind it was that Jarod probably had some attraction to her too. Dean ignored the voice in his head telling him how ridiculous it was to get jealous.

Miss Parker would come in what he assumed to be every morning, smelling of fresh air and expensive perfume, dark lipstick on her full lips, hand perfectly manicured. Her high heels would resound in the room and the sweeper that always followed her, Sam, (_Sam!_) would shoot him a deadly look, depositing a heavy pile of red notebooks and manila folders on the desk. Dean would push away the primal feelings and get to work.

She barely talked at first, not bothering to notice Dean. Oddly, being treated like a piece of furniture hurt more coming from her than anyone else he'd met in this hellhole – _four people_, he realized. She wouldn't even stay that long. Dean knew what his job was and she didn't feel like losing time down there. But there was only so much Dean could learn from files and paper articles, so one day, as Sam dropped the files on the desk, Dean eyed them, bit his tongue for a minute, and then spoke to her for the first time.

"There's only so much I can learn from these files, you know," he blurted out, eyes cast down as she turned back. "Ma'am," he added, because it was easy to get into trouble and he'd gotten from Sam that he would, if he ever showed her anything other than respect.

"Excuse me?"

She had one eyebrow raised, smug look on her face, arms crossed across her chest as she made a step back toward him.

"Ahem…" Dean mumbled, looking for words that would be proper enough, polite enough. "I'm sorry, I just… I think I would do a better, quicker job if I learned about Jarod from someone who knows him. The articles and reports only tell me cold, neutral facts. I need subjectivity. I need emotions."

His throat felt dry, now. His eyes were riveted on his hands, Dean could feel the blood pumping in his chest, the sound of her heels becoming louder as she approached him, as she got oh so close. Her perfume was bewitching, sweet and feminine, and Dean closed his eyes, not realizing that he was just breathing it all in, opening up and welcoming her under his skin.

She put her hands down on the table, leaning forward. She was above him, in every sense of the word, leaning down over him, looking down, and even if he didn't dare look up, he could feel her stare on him. He flushed, deeply embarrassed, and his hands grasped the rough fabric of his pants.

_Stay steady. She can't know. She'll know. She'll kill you. _

_She'll tell Lyle. _

"And what makes you think that I would have any emotion for Jarod, mmh?" she spat at him.

He didn't dare respond at first, and silence was reigning in the room. He could feel her getting impatient though, and knew he had to speak, quickly, or he'd make her angry.

"Everybody has emotions, Ma'am."

"I don't."

And she left.

_***_

The day after that, she came back and sat down in front of him. Judging by the angry look she was displaying, it probably had been someone else's decision, and the only thing Dean could think of was how _perfect_ it was that she wanted nothing less than be here with him. She crossed her legs, crossed her arms, and lay back on the chair.

She didn't tell him to go ahead, but the raised eyebrow was doing as much, so he started asking questions.

He was unsure at first, hesitant and awkward. He didn't dare go too far, didn't know where too far was, and was beating around the bush. Her answers were brief and cold, she was impatient, annoyed and pissed. He could tell: it was oozing out of her. He was about to ask her why Jarod was always leaving clues of his whereabouts behind when she just raised her hand to shut him up.

"How long exactly are you planning on wasting my time for? Why don't you just go ahead and ask the real questions?" she hissed, but there was something else in her voice.

_Challenge? _

Dean's blood rushed to his ears, which suddenly became very hot. He looked for the right words, but nothing came; he knew the more he waited, the worse it'd be, for both of them. He licked his cracked, dry lips, opened his mouth, waiting for the words to come out on their own.

"How does he feel about you?"

He regretted it the moment it came out. It didn't just come wrong; he should have never asked that question in the first place. But he had to know. He needed to know.

_Was it for the job, or for himself? _

There was no taking it back. The question was hanging there in the open, for her to take, dismiss, or whatever other reaction she felt like having; he had no doubt she would handle it any way she felt like.

"Exactly how is that relevant to you finding him?"

"I… Jarod keeps in touch with you and Sydney, Ma'am. I know that he's looking for answers, but it's not the only reason. I need to know his motivations, what drives him. I think you're part of it."

She considered his answers. He could tell she was impressed by the way he understood Jarod, by how fast he was grasping his complex psyche.

"I… Jarod and I met each other here, at the Centre, a long time ago."

_***_

In the days after that, Dean came to know a lot more of Jarod through Miss Parker than through anything else. It seemed like she knew everything about him; understood and cared for him. Yet she chased him down, and wanted to lock him up in this hole.

Oddly, Dean understood her motivations too. He knew what she felt. He too felt like he was being taunted by the proverbial carrot, knowing deep inside that even if Jarod returned, he would nevertheless remain here too. Worse, he'd never been offered any kind of freedom like Parker had; he only hoped that his trouble would fade away if he pleased them hard enough.

They talked a lot, he and Miss Parker, and he came to realize she was as deadly as she looked. Dean wasn't easy to manipulate, and Lyle knew that coercion was a far more effective approach with him, but soon enough Dean found himself thinking that if Jarod had never escaped the Centre, they would have probably never come for him in the first place. How fair was it, for him to be stuck in this hellhole while Jarod was apparently living the life out there?

He wished he could talk to her, tell her that he knew how she felt, that he'd lost a mother too, that he felt stuck too, but Lyle was always there, creeping, like he'd already marked his territory.

Dean pushed all those feelings away, knowing it was easier not to allow himself to feel anything at all. It helped getting into the sims, and it also helped when he had nothing to do.

He soon found that the line between reality and simulation was getting blurrier every day when he was trying to get into Jarod's mind. Maybe because Jarod himself was a Pretender, or because when he was pretending to be Jarod pretending to be someone else, it felt like looking inside an empty, bottomless well. His only grip on reality was Dr. Grey, whom he knew Jarod had never met, and these scars on his body that Jarod never had.

He looked at them, sometimes; wondering how it would look in a mirror, not having seen his reflection in a while. He didn't remember which scars had always been there, and which he acquired in the Centre. It didn't matter all that much, his past life long since pushed to the back of his mind, like everything else he didn't want to think about.

_***_

Then, one day, it got worse. Miss Parker and Sydney were busy somewhere else, probably collecting the last remnants of Jarod's passage, bringing them back for Dean to analyze. They were always getting closer, thanks to him, but apparently Jarod was becoming aware of that and had gone into deeper hiding.

Dean was alone in that big room with Dr. Grey, surrounded by red notebooks filled by Jarod with journal articles. He was focused and deep into Jarod's psyche, his eyes going from one notebook to the other, his mouth moving rapidly, no sound coming out of it. Dr. Grey was slightly in retreat, calmly guiding Dean with his hypnotic low voice.

The door opened, and Lyle came in. He was wearing a brown suit, orange shirt and tie tucked under the jacket, red glove on his left hand. The warm colors were a stark contrast to the cold tones of everything surrounding Dean, from the grey walls to the faded blue of Grey's sweater. It struck a match in Dean's soul, and a rush of emotions that he couldn't quite identify flooded into his body, rabid and desperate.

Loss and pain, betrayal and hatred quickened his heartbeat, blood rushing out of his fingers and into his legs, and Dean lunged forward, jumping, his hands gripping Lyle's suit in seconds.

Jim was on him a moment later, soon followed by Willie, and a quick punch to the gut was all it took for him to go down, folded on the floor as they grabbed his arms and pulled them painfully in cuffs behind his back. Willie had his knee pressing against the small of Dean's back, forcing his torso downwards, and Lyle raised his chin up, stretching his trachea, breathing suddenly becoming more difficult.

He probably would have received a pretty good beating if Dr. Grey hadn't jumped to the rescue, prompting Dean to snap out of the simulation. It took him a good five minutes to calm down and come back to his senses, the emotions gone, adrenaline making his limbs shake.

"Any idea why Jarod would feel so much hatred toward you, Mr. Lyle?" Dr. Grey prompted, poorly masking his amusement.

"Jarod?"

Grey nodded.

"Dean was deep in his simulation when he saw you. There's no way the reaction was Dean's fault."

"Can't he tell the difference?" Lyle spat, letting Dean's chin go.

"He's getting more and more confused. Pretending to be Jarod isn't exactly something he's ever done before; it's taking its toll on him."

Dean didn't even register the fact they were talking about him as if he wasn't in the room. He was used to it, and it usually meant he was out of trouble for the moment, which was probably a good thing, considering what he had just done.

They gave him two pills, which he welcomed, knowing they'd keep the nightmares at bay, and put him back in his room.

_***_

Eyelids heavy, throat dry, Dean woke up to the feeling he'd been sleeping wrapped in cotton. He felt more rested than he had in ages, and didn't want the feeling to go away. He remembered what happened, how he'd attacked Lyle, the pure hatred he'd felt for him. Sure, Dean hated the guy, but the feeling was mild enough that he could control himself. What he'd felt when he'd launched himself at him, however, was a primal emotion, something he'd never felt before and that he didn't think he could have ever kept in check.

He wondered how Jarod did, knowing he and Lyle had met on several occasions, and yet Lyle was still alive. To have such control over oneself was something Dean admired, and yet he despised Jarod for not having killed Lyle when he had the chance. One more reason for Dean to find him and make sure he got locked up.

Eyes still closed, Dean sensed the presence more than he felt it, resting at the feet of his bed. He was about to ask Angelo to come back later, but then he opened his eyes and stared in confusion: Lyle was watching him, body resting on his bed, against the wall. His jacket was resting on the only chair in the room, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

"Still want to strangle me?" Lyle asked, appearing amused by the whole situation. His level of confidence was strange, and made no sense to Dean. He knew he'd lost a lot of muscle, but here in this room, he was alone with Lyle, and even with sweepers just outside, he could probably do a lot of damage if he wanted to, before they ever got to him. Not that Dean was thinking about it; there wouldn't be any excuses if he tried now.

Lyle approached Dean, sitting near his hips on the bed. "You're still confused?" Taking Dean's silence for a yes, he reached under the covers and started stroking Dean's chest with his right hand.

Still knocked out by the pills, Dean didn't register the act of intrusion as quickly as he should have, and Lyle's hand was getting closer to his penis by then. His cold blue eyes were piercing through Dean's soul, his expression unreadable. Dean averted them for a second, briefly glancing at the security camera. The red light was off.

The hand was cold on Dean's cock, stroking it slowly at first, bringing it to full attention, playing with the shaft, cupping the balls. Pleasure curled in Dean's belly, the attention more welcome than that of his own hand somehow. It didn't take long for Dean's confused mind to drift back, and soon desire and pleasure were the only thoughts he had. He felt feverish, like the air was too heavy on his lungs, and he had to grasp for the sheets to keep from shaking.

Eyes closed, he felt the gloved hand guiding his to Lyle's crotch, and he palmed it without giving it a second thought. He didn't have much control over his own body, and his brain wasn't functional enough to order him to do anything with it, so Lyle covered Dean's hand with his own, pressing it firmly on his penis. His arousal was obvious, and he guided Dean's hand into his open pants, slipping both their hands in the boxers at the same time, his gloved hand covering Dean's.

Dean's pupils were already dilated, his heart beating fast, when Lyle took both their hands out of his pants and flipped Dean over. The sensation on Dean's cock gone, it somehow brought him back to reality, and when he felt Lyle lift the covers and climb above him, Dean tried turning around, the situation dawning in on him.

"Shh," Lyle soothed when he tried to move away. He reached a hand under Dean's hips, and cupped his fully erect cock again.

He resumed the stroking, Dean's moans muffled by the pillow. He could feel Lyle's own penis pulsing against his naked buttcheeks. His cock was still being stroked, the rhythm somehow erratic and without pattern, as he felt something cold against the entrance of his anus. His immediate response was to clench his ass at the alien touch, his whole body tensing.

"Easy there, boy. I can make it good for you," Lyle promised, running a finger around the crack of his hole. "It'll help you relax, clear your mind." He stroked his cock a bit faster, and soon Dean's focus was on the pleasure he was getting, trying to breathe in through the pillow, the lack of air making him light-headed and closer to coming.

Lyle lifted Dean's hips, making his head rest back directly on the mattress, giving his nose and mouth clearer access to the air, and he gently entered a finger inside Dean's hole.

The penetration wasn't really painful. The finger was lubricated, and it was too small to hurt, but the feeling was strange and confusing. Dean felt his puckered hole warm up, intense pleasure running through him as the finger pressed against his sphincter. Sweat was forming on the small of his back, pre-come slicking his cock.

A second finger soon joined the first one, and Dean groaned into the mattress. The fingers stretched his hole in a scissoring motion, which still wasn't painful, but definitely nothing like Dean had ever experienced. Lyle's other hand left Dean's penis and went to his hips, holding them still, the message clear. He ran his fingers deeper into Dean's hole, up and down his anus, and Dean was shivering with need, his cock screaming for attention now that he couldn't rub it against the mattress sheet anymore.

It started hurting when a third finger came in, and Dean tensed again immediately, but relaxed as soon as his body registered how good it felt. His anus was probably spread open by now, the burn radiating up to his cock, his eyes tight shut. He was gasping for air, trying to get one of his hands on his cock to bring the closure he was so desperate for.

The three fingers left his hole, and Lyle grabbed his hands, lifting them and pinning them above his head on the pillow.

Dean whimpered.

"What is it, Dean?" Lyle, bent over, whispered in his ear. "Come on, all you gotta do is ask, you should know that by now."

Dean felt the tip of something against his gaping hole, hard and barely pressing against it.

"Please, Mr. Lyle. I need you," Dean shivered. His arms tensed, but Lyle's grip was firm on them. "I need you inside me."

"You want me to fuck you, Dean? Is that it?" Lyle taunted.

"Yessss," he hissed. "Please, fuck me."

"Alright, since you asked so nicely." Lyle laughed.

Lyle freed one of his hands, and gripping Dean's hips firmly, pushed his way inside without warning. Dean's moan was louder than he'd intended, and he felt like he didn't have control over anything. Again, the pain soon became a warm, burning sensation that sent more blood to his cock.

Lyle let out a long growl above him as he just stayed there, buried deep inside. "So tight," he whispered, "so good." He slightly withdrew, and then dived back in, and then again, and again. Slow at first, pace increasing, his breathing soon matching Dean's. He settled at a fast pace, the sweat forming on his own body melting with Dean's own, his grip almost lost on Dean's hands, who hadn't moved them again. Lyle adjusted Dean's hips, raising his butt just a bit, offering him a better angle, and pushed in with force, hitting Dean's prostate for the first time.

Dean yelped, the sensation taking him by surprise, and his cock pulsed blood furiously. He braced himself, and soon the feeling came back, as Lyle quickly hit the prostate again. Both were panting, Dean close to coming, cock was ready to explode. He felt his balls tighten, expecting the orgasm, when he felt Lyle's fist closing tightly at the base of Dean's penis, trapping it.

He cried out in frustration, and Lyle stopped moving on top of him, tightening his grip on both Dean's hands and his cock.

"Come on, Dean, the rules haven't changed. You know how it works."

Dean tried to catch his breath, searching for the right words in his confused mind.

"Please," he begged, needy and desperate. "Please, Mr. Lyle. May I come?"

He'd blurted the line as fast as possible, his cock angrily pulsing against Lyle's fist. Lyle smirked against his ear, quickly resuming his back and forth movement, fist still tight against Dean's penis. After a few thrusts, he started pulling hard on Dean's cock: once, twice, three times, and Dean exploded on the mattress. His whole body was shaking, tremors running through his muscle, his asshole clenching in rhythm. He was still jerking white spurts of come when Lyle joined him, the grip on his hands more painful than ever, the sound of Lyle's yell resounding in the room.


	6. Chapter 6

_Part 6 _

Angelo came back a few nights later, always when the nightmares were at their worst. Like the first time, he would wake Dean up, calm him down, and then sit down on the bed, listening to Dean talk. Angelo wasn't a great talker himself, but that was fine with Dean, because he liked to do the talking, and apparently Angelo liked listening. And even if there was little hope for both of them – especially when Dean learned that Angelo had been here his whole life – it somehow made it a bit easier to have someone to share his nightmares with.

One day, Dean was shaking from a particularly bad dream, the rough day he'd had making it that much more difficult – he still wasn't making that much progress on Jarod's capture, and Miss Parker was getting impatient, which meant everyone else was too, subsequently – and Angelo was a little freaked out by the difficulties Dean was having coming back from the nightmare. He was rocking back and forth on the bed, clutching his head in his hands, begging for "it" to stop, and Dean wondered if it was somehow a fake distraction to bring Dean back. Even if it was, it worked. Dean pulled himself together, and did something he hadn't done in an eternity. Something he'd rarely done on the outside, either, and only then when it was just him and Sam. He took Angelo in his arms, hugged him, and whispered soothing promises until Angelo calmed down.

Dean knew Jarod and Angelo used to be friends. He knew Jarod had come back inside the Centre a couple of times, and had met with him. He couldn't believe Jarod had left him there several times. How was he supposed to be the good guy the files made him out to be, when he was leaving his own friends in hell?

Somehow, in a twisted part of his brain, Dean hoped that when they caught him, Lyle would let him watch them torture him. He hoped he'd hear him scream at least as much as Dean had screamed. He hoped he'd be as helpless and desperate as Angelo was when everything around was just too much.

He wasn't sure what it said of him, that he'd wish such a fate on anyone else, but he didn't care. These grey walls, these horrendous simulations, Lyle's visits at night to his room: these were his reality, now.

"NO!" Angelo yelled suddenly, breaking free from his embrace. "Jarod stays outside!" he stuttered, eyes red and puffy.

"Angelo, look," Dean explained, embarrassed. He wasn't surprised that Angelo had kept up with his thoughts. He knew that he wasn't a mind-reader, or any of that psychic crap, but Angelo could pick up on a lot of things, and nothing really surprised Dean at that point. "I know he's supposed to be your friend, but did you consider the fact that he left you here, to rot, while he's out there eating ice cream and road-tripping across the whole freakin' country?"

Dean's voice was lower, and if he wasn't really shouting, his tone was probably too harsh. Angelo hadn't deserved that, but he couldn't help it if he was that angry.

"I hate to break it to you, buddy, but we're stuck here, and that's his fault. I'm not gonna spend the rest of my life in this hellhole knowing he's living the life I'm supposed to have!"

"No," Angelo repeated calmly. "Jarod getting Dean out. Soon."

"Angelo… Look, I know you want to believe that crap because it makes it easier, but…"

"Angelo talked to Jarod yesterday. Dean out soon."

Dean didn't want to believe it. He knew it felt way too good to be true. But would Angelo lie to him? It made sense, in a way. He knew, somehow, that Jarod couldn't have done anything _before_ knowing exactly what was going on. Sydney and Angelo might have helped him gather Intel. Hell, Miss Parker might have helped a bit too, but that hadn't been that long ago. Before that, Dean bet only very few people were aware he was stuck in there, so it had been foolish of him to expect any kind of help. Now, however, if Jarod had truly set a plan to motion, it was only a matter of time before he got out.

Oh god. He'd see Dad again. And Sammy. And his car!

And slowly, Dean realized, the pieces came back together. After each of Angelo's visits, when Dean would tell him about his car, his family, and all the places he'd been to, allowing them both to dream of the sun and the endless road, Dean felt a little bit better, a little bit more like himself.

The nightmares were still there, and the gruesome life that was now laid down for him was the only prospect he could think of, any thought of escape gone from his mind ever since he'd thought about Sammy getting hurt because of him. But he wasn't just the ghost of a man anymore, and that made it just a little bit easier.

***

Drops of sweat fell down his nose as he stayed crouched in the shadows, gun and silencer in his hands. He'd found the calm inside that he was always seeking before a hunt, focusing only on the task at hand, quieting all the white noise that would bother him and lead him to failure.

He'd had to. The information he'd received just two weeks before had been bad enough. He knew this was his last act as a father; he'd have to disappear just after. But he knew his sons would be okay by then. He just hoped they would be able to forgive him, when the time came.

***

After a couple of days, when the concealed euphoria of knowing someone was going to get him out of here died away, Dean sat down on his bed, barefoot, and started to think about it. What would happen, once Jarod got him out? How would he make sure Sam wouldn't be kidnapped as soon as they realized he was gone? Would he be able to keep hunting after having spent god knows how long in this hellhole?

He looked down at his body, assessing his bones, his muscles. He remembered how to fight, or at least he thought he did, but would he be able to handle a ghost? A wendigo? He'd thought he'd lost a lot of weight, but he'd only become leaner. Whatever tasteless food they were feeding him was probably high in proteins, because he realized that he still had muscle.

The Centre's concern for his health was probably a scary thing, pointing to how long exactly they were planning on keeping him in there. He remembered pieces of a conversation Grey and Lyle had had. _Long-term asset_. Right.

God, he had to get out of here.

_***_

He'd wait for hours, awake every night, waiting for a sign, anything: his bedroom door to pop out in a blast, or Jarod crawling out of the airvents, or the alarm sounding off and putting everyone on alert.

But the days were passing, and nothing was coming. He'd play games, test himself.

_If I can count to three hundred million and forty five thousand before I fall asleep, he'll come get me tonight._

_If I can remember the name of every person I met in 10__th__ grade, he'll come get me tonight. _

_If I can stop my heartbeat for eighty seconds, he'll come get me tonight. _

But the days were passing, and he was still stuck here.

He was still doing his work, still getting his pat on the head. Eating his disgusting food, being the good boy he was supposed to be. But the thrill he'd felt at Angelo's announcement was dying a bit more each and every day, and hanging on was getting tougher every day. He thought if he just thought about it real hard, just kept it together, he'd make it. He'd repeat it again and again, _I'll get out of here, I'll get out of here, I'll get out of here._

But the days were passing, and he was losing his grip.

_***_

He still talked with Miss Parker. She came down a bit less often, but whenever he felt like he was stuck, whenever Jarod had moved on, taken a personality that was confusing the hell out of him, or just when he felt too lonely, he'd ask for her and she'd come. She didn't seem to mind as much as she used too, and he liked hearing her talk about the little girl who used to have a friend in the Centre. That idea seemed so strange to him, somehow.

"I had a mom, once, too," he said one day, out of the blue, as she was done talking, uncrossing her legs to get out of the chair.

She sat back, re-crossed her legs and looked through him.

"I lost her to a fire when I was four. I remember every part of it. Still dream about it."

"I'm sorry." She seemed sincere. She seemed like she could feel his pain.

Good.

"I remember my baby brother, not even a year old, crying in my arms. I remember the flames. I remember my dad couldn't even get to her, had to get us out before the house exploded."

Her eyes were widening at every word he spoke, as if he was pushing a knife into her, deep and good, twisting and turning it. His words were sharp, so was his tongue. He didn't know where this need to make her feel, to make her understand, came from. But she'd been sharing her misery with him for so long, just so he could understand Jarod better, and he felt like it was only fair for her to share a bit of his burden, too.

She didn't know what to say, he could tell. She wanted to speak, had her mouth open, but no words came. Her knuckles turned white, grasping her silk skirt, her breath short and erratic.

"My dad is probably still hunting down the son of a bitch who killed her. Never stopped; don't expect him to. People from the outside, they don't understand. They can't understand."

He was more whispering than speaking, now. Didn't want the sweeper to hear him, didn't want that blow to the stomach that would make him bend in half, fall on the floor, ending their conversation.

"But you can, right? Surely, you understand. The pain, the rage. The need for vengeance; tell me, Miss Parker, what the fuck are you doing down there, hunting the wrong man? Don't you think she deserved some vengeance?"

The words went too far, got too much. As easily as it cracked, the mask fell back in place and her hands released their grip. She uncrossed her long, beautiful legs once more and flattened her skirt against them as she got on her feet.

"We're done."

She motioned to the sweeper to open her door, and until the door was closed shut again, Dean could hear the sound of her heels echoing in the hallway.

_I was a man, once_, he wanted to yell at her. _I was alive_.

_***_

"Sam… Are you with me?" Jerry called, snapping two fingers in front of Sam's eyes to call his attention.

"Mmh?" Sam replied, still deep in his reverie.

"Sam! If you don't care about preparing for your interview on Monday, I've got proofs I should be checking."

"Yeah, sorry… I just…" Sam said, trying to shake off the thoughts plaguing him.

Jerry Kensington sighed, dropping his glasses on the table between them.

"What's troubling you?" he asked gently, an obvious look of concern on his face.

"It's nothing, really…"

"Sam?"

"It's just… these nightmares. Well, this one nightmare, actually. I keep having it, over and over…"

Jerry moved his body closer, putting his hands on Sam's in a paternal gesture.

"Sam. You're under a lot of stress. Monday _is _kind of a big deal for you, even if you do stand a pretty good chance of winning this full ride. You've been studying non-stop for four years, working in the summers… You've barely given yourself time to actually _enjoy_ college…"

"What? No, that's ridiculous! I _loved_ my time at Stanford. And I do feel like I've made the most of it. I just… I guess you're right, I _am_ kinda stressing out over that interview."

"Sam? Are you sure?

"Yeah, don't worry about it. We should get back to the mock interview."

_***_

He hadn't realized how alike they were, at first. It wasn't just the pain of losing a mother, wasn't just the feeling of loneliness and the hatred for everything around. It was how everything had happened in their lives, from the moment they'd lost their mothers to the day that had gotten them together in the same room. The more Dean thought about it, the more he understood that Miss Parker, undeniably, had something that he, cruelly, lacked: an instinct, a rage, making her more of a survivor than Dean could ever hope to be in here.

He'd never needed it, not when he had Sam. She, on the other hand, hadn't always had Lyle, and when she finally found him, well… She probably wished she hadn't. She'd been on her own, and she'd survived the Centre. This is what he wanted. This is what he needed.

He wanted to ask her to show him. He wanted to learn everything she could teach him. But after their last encounter, there was no way she'd ever come back down there, into the dark room he was stuck in.

So Dean did the only thing he thought he was good at: he closed his eyes, and pretended.

He felt how she closed everything down, how she pushed everything away. How strong it made her, how easy it made everything else too. He saw how weak emotions could make you, how much it hurt whenever Jarod managed to break through the ice, how much easier it was whenever she managed to push him away.

He understood her, now.

He _was_ her, now.

_***_

_Hello, Professor_, he thought as the man entered the office he'd been hiding in for two hours. The gloved hand gripped his gun tight, his breath slowing down.

There it was: the stillness. He'd felt it before, back when he was still a Marine, aiming for a perfect shot. There would be no hesitation, there would be no wavering.

He smiled.


	7. Chapter 7

Part 7 

It ended as abruptly as it had begun. He'd been woken up by Angelo, smiling down at him. Dean's face was blank, had been for what seemed like ages, and the only sign that showed any reaction, any emotion, was the way he'd softly jerked back, away from Angelo's touch, before he realized who he was.

"It's time," he said, and that was it. Dean flipped around the room, thinking he couldn't leave anything important behind, the old habits of a life on the road still engraved in his soul, before realizing that he didn't own anything he held dear to his heart. Hadn't for a long time.

Angelo led the way in the airvents, and Dean was hesitant to come with him at first. He wondered where Jarod was; wasn't he supposed to be the one getting him out? Was this all a trick, some kind of test? Was he going to screw everything up and ruin what little he'd achieved?

He was still trying to figure it out when Angelo gave a gentle tug on his sleeve, motioning for him to move forward. His mouth was silent but his eyes spoke a million words: sounds of the open, smells of the outside.

So Dean did the only thing he could think of. He stopped thinking, and let his body follow his guide.

They crawled into tiny vents for what seemed like hours. The air was damp and hot, his skin moist, the sweat not drying off. His clothes were clamped to his skin, his eyes blinded by the drops of sweat. His hands were losing their grip on the smooth metallic walls of the airvents, and he was growing tired.

Was it the journey that was so difficult, or had he really lost more muscle than he'd thought? Angelo didn't seem to have as much trouble, but he didn't look anything like a human between these walls; this place he'd been crawling in for the better part of his life; his kingdom.

They finally reached a dead end, and Angelo gently and soundlessly removed the grid, giving them access to an empty room. He crawled out of the vent, and reached back in to give Dean a hand.

Dean almost fell to the floor from exhaustion. He had no idea how long or how high they had crawled, but he hoped this was it. He wasn't sure he had it in him otherwise to make it to the top.

He was getting his breath back when he noticed someone else in the room, watching him, coming to him.

_Crap! He shouldn't have trusted Angelo!_

His first thought was to run, but there was nowhere he could run; they'd find him in the vents, and the other body was blocking the only other exit out of this room. He was fucked.

And then, just has his breathing came back to normal, he managed to calm down to assess the situation and came to realize that the man in front of him was awfully familiar, and extending a friendly hand to him. Huh.

"Hi," he smiled genuinely, his dark eyes shining with malice and intelligence. "I'm Jarod. It's so good to finally meet you."

Dean took his hand, letting out a heavy breath out. He briefly shook it before understanding that it was meant as a help to get him back on his feet. He grasped it tightly and let Jarod pull him back up.

Standing, Jarod wasn't much bigger than he was, but his shoulders were broader and he stood straighter. No doubt the times of abuse Dean had endured had changed the way he stood.

Jarod gave him a slight friendly tap on the shoulder to get him out of his reverie and smiled at him.

"You okay?" Jarod seemed to be looking straight through him, just like Sydney had done the first time they'd met.

"Yeah. Huh… Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet. Wait until we're somewhere safe." He smiled at him and turned his back, opening the door, leading the way.

"Right."

They were barely out of the room when Dean realized Angelo wasn't following them. Had they lost him? Had he been caught?

"Angelo's not coming. We've discussed it for a long time, and nothing I can say will make him change his mind. I'm sorry."

"But… no!" Dean objected. So this was him, the great Jarod, the man he'd been told to catch, leaving people behind? Was Jarod only breaking him free because he'd been so close to catching him?

"Listen to me, Dean," he said in a commanding voice that resembled… well, everyone else he'd ever met in the past few months, probably. "This is neither the place, nor the time to discuss it. If we stay here one more second, we'll both get caught. Who will break us free then? Angelo made his decision. He wants to help from the inside. Don't worry, he'll be okay. They won't put the blame on him."

He tugged on Dean's sleeve, hurrying him up to a big iron door, leading to a gigantic heating room, probably the heating unit of the whole building. Hot pipes were running everywhere, steam was coming off half of them, and the path to the exit seemed narrow and dangerous.

But they had no choice.

"Cover your face, and be careful."

It took them twice as long to cross the room as it should have. Frankly, Dean would have been faster, but it looked like Jarod was watching for every blow of steam, every unexpected turn.

They finally reached the other side of the room, leading to – _oh, great_ – another vent. Jarod pulled the grid open, and climbed in.

The air was cold, so cold in contrast to the hot air of the heating room, and Dean was having trouble breathing all over again. But the conduits were wider, and the air was fresher, which _had_ to be a sign. They crawled for a while, and at some point the conduits stopped going _further _and started going _up._ A ladder was sewn into the concrete walls, and its bars were cold and rough. Dean thought it was funny how it had begun with cold, rough iron bars, and would end with them too.

Hopefully.

They made their journey up, bar after bar, Dean trying not to think too hard about what would happen if he fell. Or if a welcoming committee was waiting for them at the end.

Finally they reached the top, and Jarod used his shoulders to push the heavy slab away. At first, the only thing Dean could see looking up was Jarod's body, but already his heart had stopped beating. His hands were grasping the bars tightly and his mouth was turned into a thin line. But then, Jarod got out of the way, and tears of joy started streaming down Dean's face. The night was moonless, and the stars were high in the sky, shining with all of their beauty.

Even after a good hunt, or a good fuck, or just a good night, Dean had never taken the time to admire them, these stars. And he'd thought it was the reason why he'd forgotten what they really looked like, how beautiful they were.

Jarod appeared back in his line of view, motioning for him to keep climbing up, and out of the vent. The breeze was gentle and cool on his skin, in his greasy hair. He shivered a bit, ran his hands up and down his arms, looking around, looking back.

He saw the Centre from the outside for the first time, an imposing, huge building, much like an iceberg, only displaying a tenth of how big it really was. On the other side, a vineyard was hidden by a thick, very low fog sprawled out across the ground, result of the heat of the ground meeting the moist of the vines.

Lights were going on and off afar, dogs barking and voices shouting. Word was out. He was out.

"We have to run to the car. Now!" Jarod urged, not waiting for him to follow, already taking off, cutting across the fog.

Dean started running, at first not sure if he'd remember how to run at all, then realizing his body wasn't even waiting for instructions; his legs were moving on their own, his heart racing, adrenaline running through his veins. He felt heady. He felt alive again.

He did not look back. Blocked out the sound of the dogs approaching, the whistling of the alarm in the silent night. Jarod was a bit ahead of him, and would start the car before he got there; he'd make it, he had to.

His limbs were lacerated by the vines, his cotton pants turning into rags. He'd probably end up watching them burn, anyway. He could not wait to get rid of them, or the shoes, which were too soft, too flat for that fast a run, and were hurting his feet.

Finally, the car was in sight, Jarod already turning the ignition, fastening his seat belt, opening Dean's door for him. The motor was already on, warming up.

A dog on Dean's trail, barking after him, running and raging. Dean felt like he had when running for his life during a nasty hunt, a monster after him. This was just one more battle, he repeated himself, one more battle he could not afford to lose.

He dived into the car as Jarod hit the gas and took off, gaining distance on the dog which stopped running eventually and just watched the car fade away in the night, barking after it.


	8. Chapter 8

Part 8 

The engine was purring under the hood, wheels swallowing miles. Jarod was focused on the road stretching before them, both hands on the wheel. Dean, riding shotgun, was still trying to catch his breath; he was still trying to grasp the idea that he just got out of that hellhole. The floor was vibrating under him, the car almost humming in his ears, and it would have probably been very relaxing if his brain hadn't been on overload.

Where were they going? Would they be safe? Would Angelo be safe?

What about his Dad? What about Sammy? Where were they, all of them?

"Hey, are you alright?" Jarod asked, concerned, sensing Dean was starting to hyperventilate. He took a hand off the wheel and put it on Dean's chest, palm flat against his heart. It grounded him, made him feel connected, somehow. He took deep breaths, eyes closed, head spinning.

"I know it can be a little overwhelming. Take your time. You're going to be okay."

Jarod's voice was deep and penetrating, much like his dad's, and it felt like every word he spoke could be trusted. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Dean felt safe.

How could he have ever doubted the man? How could he have felt any animosity toward him? Would it be honest to blame it on the Centre really screwing with his mind, screwing with his heart, or was there a part of him that was at fault too?

"Hey," Jarod called. Dean opened his eyes. "Stop thinking too much, okay?"

"I don't think I can do that," Dean admitted. "It's like my brain won't stop working."

"Yeah. Turning it off is a neat trick, huh? I'll show you how when we're somewhere safe."

"Safe…"

The word echoed in Dean's mind. Would he ever be safe? Would Sam ever be safe?

His eyes widened in fear. He was horrified by the fact he'd forgotten about Sammy.

"Sammy!" he shouted, jerking up on his seat. "Sam! We have to get to him! They'll kill him now that I escaped!"

"Don't worry about Sammy," Jarod assured, but Dean wouldn't hear him. He was panicking again, feeling like an emotional wreck for not being able to get his feelings in touch, not being able to control himself.

"Hey!" Jarod shouted again, a bit louder. "I said don't worry about that. Your dad took care of the problem."

"Dad? Took care… How? Where is he?"

"Just… try to relax, you're gonna get us into an accident. Don't worry about them, okay? I wouldn't have made my move without knowing they're safe. We'll talk about it at the warehouse. Why don't you try to relax, huh?"

Jarod glanced at Dean's hands, releasing the breath he'd been holding when he saw them unclenching. He took in Dean's soft and light cotton attire, noticing how Dean was shivering, half because of the adrenaline.

"There's a blanket on the backseat, it'll keep you warm and comfy."

Dean thought about warmth; about comfort. He hadn't felt such things, not since he'd gotten to the Centre. He reached for the blanket; tucked himself under it, rested his head against the pillow.

It felt nice. Being on the road, warm and safe, with someone next to him he could trust to have his back. It felt like being home.

His eyes fixed the road, watching the trees pass by alongside it. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, and he felt tired, more tired than he'd felt in a while. The motion hypnotizing him, his eyelids started feeling heavier, and he drifted to sleep.

_***_

Dean only woke up when he felt a nudge on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes to Jarod standing beside the car, passenger door open. He pulled the blanket out and tossed it back on the backseat, and unbuckled his seatbelt. His legs felt numb and his toes tingled.

The dried blood from his wounds was sticking his pants to his skin, and his shoes were torn and damaged. His back hurt, and his hands were scratched.

He got out of the car and shut the door. Jarod was watching his every move, probably looking for any sign of him freaking out again.

He took in his surrounding, realizing how good Jarod had been at picking a secure location: the street was small and dark, the building tall. Dean didn't know which city they were in, but he bet the neighborhood only had small streets that Jarod already knew by heart; if they ever had to run, no doubt Jarod would be able to lose the Centre in this maze.

Dean knew Jarod would be leading them to one of the top floors, because it was the best strategic position they could have: being as far from the main entrance as possible would buy them time, and they could use the emergency exit from the rooftop to escape.

But that was the worst-case scenario. Dean knew there was little chance the Centre would find them here.

The apartment itself wasn't bad; it was certainly better than half the motels Dean had lived in since his dad at taken them on the road. Dean swiped the room once, like he'd done for as long as he could remember. It was cleaned, settled. He could tell Jarod had been there for some time.

Jarod closed the door behind them and threw the keys on the table; took off his leather jacket, folded it on the back of a chair in the kitchenette.

"You want to sleep some more?"

Dean shook his head. Jarod had said they'd talk, and Dean needed answers. He sat on one of the two chairs in the kitchenette, as Jarod had motioned him. Jarod disappeared into what appeared to be the bathroom, and came back a few seconds after that, disinfectant, scissors and cotton in hand.

Jarod knelt down in front of him, and started cutting through his pants with the scissors. The cuts weren't deep, not as nasty as they could have been, and they'd stopped bleeding in the car. Dean felt awkward as Jarod removed his shoes for him too, feeling like some kind of freaking princess, but it didn't show. His feet were dirty and sore, and it felt good to be able to stretch them and cool them down on the cold floor.

The disinfectant was stinging his wounds, but Dean showed no sign of being in pain. He let Jarod work on them, cleaning out the dried blood and dirt. It felt good having someone care for him, touch him for another purpose than to harm him or abuse him.

Jarod got him a pair of pants and made some coffee. Soon, the aroma filled the room, and Dean's mouth started watering. He wouldn't have thought he would be able to remember the delicious taste of fresh, black coffee, but as soon as he smelled the beverage brewing in the pot, it was as if he was already drinking it.

"You want anything to eat?"

Dean shook his head: his stomach was knotted; he didn't think he'd be able to eat anything any time soon.

Jarod poured the coffee into two mugs and passed one to Dean. He took a sip and felt himself relax as soon as his taste buds arose to the flavor. He took another careful sip, then put the mug down.

"You said we'd talk," he blurted out, without further introduction. His eyes were locked on his hands, throat dry, feeling like he was back in that room, under the gaze of the sweepers.

Jarod cleared his throat, and sat down in front of Dean.

"Okay. Hum… why don't you tell me what you know, and I'll fill in the blanks?"

Dean considered the question. How much _did_ he know? The Centre had been keen on keeping him in the dark, never really telling him why he was there, how he'd gotten there, how they'd _known_.

"I remember a bar, in Minnesota." The memories were still pretty vivid in his mind. He'd forgotten a lot from the outside: impressions, feelings, but his brain was still there, and the events hadn't been erased.

"I was getting some money at the pool table. Then I head out to my car and next thing I know, I'm getting mauled by these four big guys, except it's not a mauling, and they put me down with a needle." He paused, shuddering. The panic of that day was still there, deeply embedded in his bones. It had never left him. He'd never felt safe after that night.

"I woke up at the Centre, in a cold cell. Spent the rest of it being tortured and forced to do these things for them," he spat. "They didn't tell me much, only that I was a pretender, and that they wanted to use my simulations."

Both men were staring at their respective cups, letting the silence calm Dean down. Reviving such trauma was pretty intense, and Dean was grateful for the time Jarod was giving him. He didn't even know where to start, what to ask first.

"How long as it been?" he finally asked, dreading the answer.

"When were you in Minnesota?"

"March 2005. I think."

Jarod looked him straight in the eyes, the sympathy on his face clear.

"Today's October 28th," he said. "I'm sorry…"

"Seven months?" Dean swallowed, blood rushing out of his face. "Seven?"

It felt longer. And shorter. Dean didn't really know how he was supposed to feel. It was strange, being able to put some time value to the months of torture and abuse. It was weird, to be able to finally tell WHEN he was.

He nodded, licked his lips. "Alright. What can _you_ tell me? Where's my dad? What do you know about Sam? _Fuck_, where's my car?"

Jarod smiled at the last part. "The car is fine. I found it in Minnesota, right where you left it. It's safe, in an underground parking lot, not too far from here."

The relief Dean felt at the mention of his car being safe was short-lived, his mind directly going to the other part of the question. "Dad?" he just asked, his chest tight and his breathing laborious.

"Your dad is okay… as far as I know."

"What do you mean, as far as you know? What's going on?"

"Maybe I should tell you the whole story first…"

Dean didn't reply, motioning with his hand for Jarod to continue.

"Right." Jarod cleared his throat and took a deep breath. His hands were cupped around the coffee mug, and he was staring at the black liquid, as if he was reading the proper response in it. "As you know, you disappeared in March. The Centre was very discreet about it, and even checking up on their goings-on regularly, it took me a while to realize something was going on."

Dawn was breaking outside, and the sky was red, the clouds stretching the colors infinitely. The remnants of a hot summer Dean hadn't seen pass by were still hanging low in the atmosphere, making the early day already hot and promising more heat to come.

The sun was breaking in the room, awaking Dean's skin to something he hadn't felt in seven months. Birds were singing outside, starting their busy day. Garbage men were loading trash in a truck, not too far away, the sound of the machine echoing through the alley. The world had still been rolling without Dean; hadn't waited for him to come back.

Jarod took a break, sipping his coffee.

"By June, though, I hacked into the Centre's system, and looking at their current account, I realized something was off. A quick call to Sydney was all I needed to know they'd gotten their hands on you. I learned as much as I could hacking into the Centre, but it seemed like nobody knew your last name."

Dean frowned, remembering he'd never been addressed as "Winchester", and thought Lyle might have been the only one to know his full name. Thinking back at the people he'd met in the Centre, there wasn't a single person in there that ever had a full name. Odd.

"It took me one month to get your last name and trace it back to your dad; two more months to find your father, and get him to trust me enough to help him get you back. At the end of August, we knew as much as we could: security was tight, and there was no breaking you out until we knew Sam was safe."

Dean raised his head at the mention of his brother, and looked at Jarod inquisitively. Jarod nodded, confirming what he'd already promised earlier: Sam was safe.

"However, we still didn't know who was watching Sam, nor did we know how to get you out. We worked on both fronts for a couple of weeks, but couldn't get anywhere. Your dad started taking off for days at a time, coming back to the house we'd set up bloody and tired."

Dean knew some kind of explanation was expected, but he would give none. Hearing that his father had kept hunting while he was rotting in the Centre hurt at first, but he quickly pushed the feelings aside, knowing they'd only make him weak. Rationalizing, he told himself that it had been the best strategy: there was no point in letting innocent people die and monsters live if his father and Jarod were running in circles, chasing dead ends.

"Finally, I managed to make a breakthrough in the Centre's system again, this time unnoticed, and learned more about your location. At about the same time, Angelo sent me a mail to tell me about the person watching Sam. At that time, your dad had taken off again, told me he'd gone to Jericho, California, not telling me what he was going to do over there."

Jarod swallowed and brushed his forehead, looking embarrassed and preoccupied.

"Then what?" Dean pressed.

"I tried to call your dad back, but he wouldn't answer his phone. I left him a dozen messages, but he wouldn't answer."

Dean's eyes widened, his hand turning into a fist on his thigh.

"Relax, Dean," Jarod urged as he saw his reaction. "I think your dad is fine. Even after the twelve or something messages I left him, his voicemail was still registering them, which meant your dad listened to them and erased the new ones. For some reason, he decided to cut contact, but I knew he was okay."

Dean's heartbeat slowed down again, but his mind was raging. How could Jarod have taken such chances? What if his dad had _not_ been okay, and Jarod had broken free without being sure Sammy would be safe? Was Sammy safe?

"So I sent him all the information I had on your brother's situation, and told him exactly when to strike; I knew he'd take care of it his own way. I knew he was a very competent man and wouldn't fail his sons. I made my way to the east coast and set down two safe houses: the one we're in, and a closer one I used the night before I broke you out, and that we would have used if either of us had been injured and unable to make the long trip without some rest."

Dean closed his eyes, trying to imagine his dad, having lost his two sons. Even when they were both hunting solo, they could still rely on each other for support, council and, even if they wouldn't admit it, comfort. Even knowing the other one was _out there_ was sometimes still enough. He couldn't imagine what it must have been like for his Dad to live in the dark like that.

"While you were out, in the car, I tried calling for him again. I didn't get an answer, but shortly after that I got a message confirming that Sam was safe and his threat taken care of."

Dean rubbed the stubble that was irritating his skin, trying to sort out all the information. Why would his dad go to ground like that, and cut all contact? Was he really okay? Was he in trouble?

Dean, frustrated and bothered, quickly jerked out of his seat, starting to pace across the small kitchen.

"Did Dad tell you anything? Did he give you any clue at all? I _need _to know!"

Jarod shook his head, eyes following Dean's movements.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I ran every possible scenario in my head, I have no clue. I just told you everything I know."

"What did my dad look like, aside from bloody? When he came back?"

"Your dad was worried, but that's understandable: both his sons were in danger. And…"

"And what?" Dean pressed again.

"He seemed kind of paranoid. But so was I. The Centre has ties everywhere in the US, and out of it. We had to be careful… I figured your Dad just knew his business, had been trained well by the Marines…"

"How paranoid exactly?"

"He was checking things all the time; in his bag, in his journal… He was sleeping with a gun in his hand and a knife behind his pillow… Wouldn't trust a stranger, would eye everyone warily."

Dean frowned. What was he afraid of? Had a job gone wrong? Was he afraid of having been followed? Did he cut off contact with Jarod to protect him from something that was after him? What was in Jericho?

"Look, Dean… I think you should get some rest, sleep through this…"

"No," Dean cut. "I gotta get going. I gotta get Sam somewhere safe."

"Now hold on, Dean. You're in no state to drive across the country, and Sam will be fine for a while."

Dean violently put both his hands on the table, looking Jarod dead in the eye.

"Safe? The Centre wants me, and these bastards won't hesitate to hurt him to get to me. You think he's safe?"

Jarod smiled, malice shining in his eyes.

"Trust me when I tell you Sam is the last thing they have on their minds. Not with the ruckus I caused in their system."

"What are you talking about?" Dean frowned.

"The Centre will probably be more concerned with securing their assets and saving their asses than thinking about you or your family for a while."

"What about Lyle?"

"Lyle just lost you. The Centre is not forgiving, Dean. He's going to have one hell of a day, trust me. I don't think he'll have time to think about anything else than saving his own ass for a while. Lyle is a coward. He won't face danger, he'll fly; without resources, without any way to get his hands on Sam."

Dean nodded, breathing out deeply. Okay. He could do this. He could trust Jarod's words. And he was right, he did feel tired and mentally drained out.

"The bedroom is the next door to your right" Jarod said, as if reading his mind. "You go and get some sleep, I'll find us some food and check on things."

Dean nodded. "Jarod, I…"

"Don't mention it."

_*******_

His target barely struggled when he saw him come out of the shadow. Didn't have the time to. He swooped down on him, his free hand covering the victim's mouth, silencing him.

He pointed the gun into the man's chest, right above the heart. He wished he had the time to actually make the man suffer, to shoot him in the guts and let him bleed slowly, in agonizing pain for hours. But he had places to go, and he needed to know his sons could be safe before he could undertake his last journey.

He plunged his gaze into the man's eyes, smiling at the fear he read in them.

"I have to hand it to you, _Professor_. You were good. You covered your tracks well. But you made one mistake."

He adjusted his grip on the gun, his finger gently covering the trigger and his smile faded.

"You don't mess with a Winchester."

The gun went off.


	9. Chapter 9

Part 9 

Dean thought that now that he was free again, now that he was far from that nightmarish place, the nightmares would leave him. He was very wrong.

His night had been plagued by nightmares, alternating between that little boy, body full of holes, crying at him, asking him why he'd given him away; and Sam's body, limp and cold, under Lyle's laughing and triumphant frame. He dreamt of Lyle violating and abusing him as Sam was forced to watch, and when Dean would turn to look at his brother he'd see the disgusted look on his face. Lyle would force him to beg some more, and Dean would oblige, knowing he was protecting Sammy by indulging in Lyle's twisted fantasies. At some point, the two dreams merged and Sam was back to his ten-year-old self, body bloody and full of holes, begging for Dean to protect him, to keep him safe.

Dean jerked awake, feeling feverish and nauseous, and rushed to the bathroom to empty the coffee he'd drunk a few hours before. He rinsed his mouth and, groggy, put on a sweater that Jarod had left out for him on a chair. The remnants of his dreams where still fresh and vivid in his memory, and he could still see the nightmare unfold before him, even as he was awake and eyes wide open.

He slowly made his way to the kitchenette, feet dragging across the floor. His stomach was still cramping, his throat raw and hurting.

Jarod was sitting by the kitchen table, laptop open and on. His fingers were running on the keyboard, his concentration focused on the task at hand, whatever it was.

A McDonald's brown paper bag was next to the laptop, the bottom stained with grease. A burger box sat empty a bit further on the table, and a bag of fries was getting cold next to it.

A quick glance to the clock on the wall told Dean he'd been sleeping for five hours, much less than he'd hoped. Noon was approaching, and the heat of early fall was getting at its peak.

Jarod raised his head when he felt his presence, and his attempted smile quickly faded when he realized the state Dean was in. He didn't ask, though, and Dean was grateful for that. He didn't think he'd have it in him to talk about anything that happened in the Centre, nor would he be able to admit the horrors he'd committed just so he could be a bit better off.

"I'm quickly making sure everything is running smoothly; nothing unexpected so far."

Dean nodded, not really knowing what Jarod meant by that, not nearly curious enough to ask him for details. He didn't feel like talking anyway; wasn't used to it anymore.

"I got you a burger and some fries; you must be hungry. Help yourself, I already had my share"

Dean grabbed the brown bag and emptied its contents on the table. The burger fell in front of him, the fries on top. He eyed the food with interest, his stomach growling. The smell of grease was something else he'd forgotten. He thought about how happy it should have made him, to rediscover all the nasty junk food he'd never been granted, but he found out that it didn't have much an effect on him.

He felt numb; as numb as he'd been in his last days at the Centre. Everything was much more intense here: more flavors, more smells, more colors; much more music and much more life. But it all seemed distant to him, like it was something he couldn't have, never again. He wondered if it'd change one day or if he was broken and unfixable. He didn't necessarily care.

He bit down into the burger, and after having only been allowed the taste of that grey mush, the only thing his tastebuds could identify was the grease. He didn't mind, happy to have something to fill his stomach in case he had to puke again later.

Jarod sat silent in front of him, finishing whatever he was doing on his laptop, leaving Dean be.

"I don't really like the idea of letting you leave like that, be on your own, you know," Jarod bluntly informed him, out of the blue, while Dean was munching on his fries.

"Tough break. Nothing you can do about it though, huh?"

"I guess not. It's not my decision to make. But please, consider the idea that you might not be ready to face the world again on your own…"

His voice was low and deep, deeper than usual, and Dean remembered he'd used the same tone to calm him down in the car the night before.

"And what the hell would you know about that?"

Dean regretted the words as soon as they were out. He knew Jarod's life; had studied every piece of it back at the Centre. He knew Jarod had been through so much more than he had, yet had had to cope on his own. He didn't, however, apologize.

"Look," Jarod said after a while. "I just want to make sure you're gonna be okay. I know what you've been through. You're confused, you're having nightmares, and trust me, they won't go away that easily."

"And what do you suggest? That we talk about our pasts, cry on each other's shoulders and hug, and everything will be okay?"

"I know you're angry, Dean, and I know you're hurt." Jarod spoke with what seemed like infinite patience, something Dean seemed to recognize from Sydney's behavior. "But shutting everything and everyone out is not gonna make it better. What's the point of being out, free again, if you don't allow yourself to savor your freedom?"

Dean let out a sigh, and collapsed on the couch. He didn't want to talk about it, dammit! He didn't even want to think about it.

"I just need to keep going; find Sammy, find Dad. I can't afford to think about myself, not right now. Please understand that."

Jarod nodded. "What do you want to do, then?"

"Could I borrow your computer and your phone? I need to start looking for my father."

_***_

Dean had called everyone he could remember the number of: Bobby, Pastor Jim, Caleb. None knew the whereabouts of his father; in fact, none seemed to have known anything about Dean's disappearance either. To them, Dean had just stayed under the radar, while keeping hunting. He figured it was a good thing he wouldn't have to give any explanations.

He'd then researched what could have drawn his father to Jericho, California. Nothing was on the web, however; the happenings of the little town were too insignificant to interest anyone. Thankfully, the right call got him copies of several articles about mysterious deaths in the area. His dad had been hunting something, alright….

He guessed the next step after getting Sam out of Stanford was to drive to Jericho to find his dad, and learn why on earth he'd stopped answering his phone.

It was already late when he was finished, and told Jarod he'd be leaving early the day after.

"So… I need my car" Dean simply stated, eyes shining with anticipation.

"Right. It's not far from here, let's get it now."

They drove for about ten minutes inside what Dean found out to be Washington, D.C. It was bright outside, the luminosity hurting Dean's eyes, the noise distracting him. It wasn't like he'd become a hermit, or agoraphobic, or _whatever_, but fuck, he'd never been a big city kind of person in the first place. Jarod was driving silently beside him, eyes on the road, both hands on the wheel, edgy.

Dean's heart was beating fast in anticipation by the time Jarod turned right, into the underground parking lot. He inserted a ticket, a fence opened and he drove in. They skipped a couple of floors that seemed packed with Toyotas and Fords, and then they got down to the 3rd floor, half empty, darker, more silent.

Jarod made another turn and Dean's heart stopped. Oh, god. Dean had forgotten how beautiful she was; black, slick, curvy in the right places. Not as shiny as he'd hoped, not with the dust it had accumulated, but still as awesome as ever. Jarod stopped the car a bit further, dove into the glove box and dug out keys he jingled in front of Dean's nose, mischief shining in his dark eyes.

Dean needed no other clue: he grabbed the keys and jumped out of Jarod's car. Two big footsteps and he was in front of the Impala, hands barely daring to touch the hood, instead tracing the contours and shapes of it, like the caress of a ghost over a lover's naked body. He opened the driver's door and without further waiting, sat in the driver's seat.

God, it'd been so long. His spine could still remember the feel of the seat behind him, though, and the _smell_ was still as familiar as it had ever been. He ceremoniously put both hands on the wheel, pushing his back further into the seat, and closed his eyes, breathing in, picturing the road ahead of him.

"Shh, honey," he whispered. "I'm home".

He turned the key in the ignition and shivered with pleasure as the low growl of the engine reverberated in his bones. Everything was still there, as he'd left it, like he'd never been gone. Like the world, _his_ world, had stopped for him.

Except… Except Dad was missing now, and Sammy had probably graduated already, and fuck, he had to get to Sam, make sure he was safe. With a brief hand-signal, Dean motioned for Jarod to drive out of the parking lot, and back to the apartment.

The drive back was completely different. It was like Dean was slowly sewing himself back together: first his freedom; now his car. Soon he'd have Sam, and then Dad. Everything was just a bad nightmare he could put behind him and forget all about. Yeah. Had to be.

_***_

Dean also rejoiced over finding his – his dad's – leather jacket. He wouldn't need it for another couple of weeks on the East Coast, not for another couple of months in the Southwest, but the fabric was comfortingly familiar, like a second skin.

He opened his duffle bag to jump back into his own clothes and immediately stopped. There it was, on top of the pile of clothes, tiny and light. The amulet. God, how could he have forgotten about it? And how lucky had he been, really, that the leather thread had broken off a couple of times already and, not wanting to lose it for good, he'd put it in his duffle bag until he had time to buy a new cord… They would have probably taken it away from him and he would've never seen it again.

He grabbed it, his hand closing into a fist around it and pressing against his lips, like he was palming a rosary and kissing the buds he was praying with. The memory of Sam, that he'd vainly tried to burry over the past months, the one thing that this amulet always brought back, came back vividly, crashing down on him, choking him up. And suddenly, he was suffocating, the room spinning, his body shivering with need; his mind overloading with Sam's smell, Sam's smile, Sam's voice.

He fell down on his knees, one hand on the floor to stop his body from falling further down, the other still clutching the amulet, eyes tight shut and blocking out the room around him, as endless memories of his brother came back, everything he hadn't known he'd locked away, way before he'd ever been stolen away from his life by the Centre; memories he'd buried to survive the idea of that bus taking Sam away from him forever, leaving him alone with Dad, alone with the hunt. The only reason it had ever been possible for him to even keep going was because he'd never allowed himself to realize how much he needed Sam; because he'd never allowed himself to acknowledge that it wasn't any more possible to live without Sam than it would be without the Impala.

"Take a deep breath, it's okay," he heard his mind filter through the haze: that voice, as deep as his dad's. Soothing, like the hand that was rubbing on his back, massaging the shivers. Jarod.

Dean focused on Jarod's voice, on the carpet under him, the hand on his shoulder, anything.

"I… I have to get him", his voice trembled, body shaking as he gathered his thoughts, sitting on the carpet, one hand on his forehead.

"Not tonight, you don't" Jarod shook his head, concern all over his face, sympathy in his body. "You're way too tired to hit the road, Dean, and even more confused. I don't even think you should go tomorrow. Not on your own".

Dean rose up abruptly, pushing Jarod back. He paced the room, muttering to himself, going back and forth between his duffle bag and the window, gripping his hair, not knowing where to begin.

"I'm gonna have to get the map and a full tank of gas," he said to himself, "and I'm gonna need food and coffee, I can't stop on the way". He turned back violently, facing Jarod. "You're not stopping me," he accused him. "He's in danger, and every minute I spend away from him is a minute they get." He switched back to the window, eyes suddenly afar and lost into the horizon, before rushing back to his duffle bag, shuffling through it.

Jarod got back on his feet, hands suddenly on Dean's forearm, the gentle grip harmless but clearly a promise he wouldn't be letting go. He made Dean look up, into his eyes.

"Okay," he just said.

"Okay?" Dean asked back, confused.

"Okay. We'll go tonight," he smiled and got up, leaving the room.

Dean, back on the floor, duffle between his legs, frowned. He stared at the contents of the bag as if he was trying to figure it out for a good five minutes, calm and still, as if Jarod had found the switch.

He got back up again, brushing the sweat from his palms onto his jeans, and went back into the living room, where Jarod was packing up.

"We?" he asked confused, realizing that Jarod had every intention of following him.

"If you think I'm gonna let you drive off like that on your own, you're not as smart as everybody seems to think."

Dean stayed there for a minute, looking at Jarod as he went back to packing without another word, and then went back to the room and re-packed the contents of the duffle bag he'd thrown out during his rampage.

***

Dean had protested fiercely when Jarod had claimed he'd be the one to do most of the driving, but when Jarod had threatened to knock him out and drag his ass back to the apartment, he'd realized there was no point arguing.

Jarod had thus installed himself behind the wheel of the Impala, and it probably said how much Dean trusted him that he was letting him drive his baby like that. Then again, Jarod had freed him from the Centre. And because of the simulations they'd made him do, he knew the guy probably better than Jarod knew himself, so he guessed if there was anyone he could trust outside the family circle, it was him.

The drive to Palo Alto wouldn't take more than forty-eight hours, during which Dean was sure he'd be allowed to drive only to let Jarod rest. Yes, it sucked, not being able to drive the car when he'd been stuck in that hellhole for so long, but he figured between that and risking his car by suddenly snapping and going mad again like he'd been at the apartment, there was no contest.

So Dean settled shotgun for the first part of the drive, watching in awe as the landscape switched from city buildings to the forests of Pennsylvania and then Ohio. They'd decided to follow the I-80, travelling as far north as possible without losing time, to catch some cool air and avoid the dry heat of the south this time of the year.

Eleven hours of driving and they were almost to Chicago. The light was faint, the day barely breaking through the thick clouds, but the road was clear and easy to ride on. Jarod was avoiding the bumps of the right lane so as not to wake Dean up. He'd fallen asleep about eight hours ago, hypnotized by the motion of the trees passing by on the side of the road.

No matter how smooth Jarod's driving was, however, it didn't stop Dean from suddenly jerking awake from a nightmare. He abruptly sat up in his seat, scanning his surroundings to remind himself of where he was.

The car. Right.

He rubbed a hand on his face, trying to shake off the remnants of the bad dream; trying to shy away from the echo of a boy screaming.

He could feel Jarod's eyes shifting back and forth between him and the road, concern obvious on his features. Dean braced himself for the "talk" that was about to come, about how he had to share his _feelings_ and talk about his _nightmares_ and he was not going to. No way.

"I'm not gonna talk about it," he re-affirmed, out loud this time, when it became obvious Jarod wouldn't be instigating the conversation.

"I know." Jarod kept his eyes on the road ahead, both hands on the wheel.

Dean shifted again in his seat, his bones hurting in this position. It was clear he'd lost the habit of travelling for so long.

"I'm serious. I don't want to talk about it. So you can shove your concerned look where the sun don't shine, keep driving, and quit giving me those _looks_."

"Okay."

The trees were still scrolling by outside the window, their silhouettes barely distinguishable from the dark, clouded sky.

"It's not even that big of a deal anyway. I'm fine."

"Sure."

The engine was still purring contentedly, the car vibrating all the way into Dean's bones, the quiet hum of the road soothing an ache that had long since been installed.

"And you know what? It was just a nightmare. I can deal with it. I don't _need_ to be dreaming about unicorns and rainbows to be functioning."

"Is that all that matters, though?"

"What… unicorns and rainbows?"

Jarod scoffed.

"To be functioning?"

"No. What matters is getting Sam _safe. _And I don't need freakin' therapy to do it."

Jarod nodded, clearly looking for the proper words.

"And after we get Sam?"

"What about it?"

"Is functioning still going to be enough?"

"I don't know."

"Are you going to just push away whatever it is you don't want to deal with, hoping it'll eventually go away?"

"I don't _know."_

"And what are you going to do when something sets you off, and you freak out in front of Sam, just like you did at the apartment?"

"I DON'T KNOW, OKAY?"

The shout echoed in the car, leaving nothing but silence as it died off. Sensing Jarod wouldn't reply to his sudden outburst, Dean hoped he'd leave it at that for the rest of the trip, and settled back into the seat, head against the window.

"Look," Jarod started again, "I don't want to push you. And you're gonna have to figure things out on your own anyway. But there is one thing you're gonna have to understand."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"If you just settle for going through the motions, without even appreciating the things around you, then it's like you never left. It's like they've still got you, like you never escaped. And trust me, you don't want that. Because once you start realizing that, you stop fighting, and you might as well hand yourself over to them."

Dean was looking at his hands, not trusting himself to look at Jarod, afraid what he was telling him might be too real.

"That's another thing. They're not gonna stop wanting you locked up just because you had the backbone to leave them. They're gonna hunt you down, and they won't stop until you're either dead or back in their clutches."

"Gee, you're one happy camper!"

"I'm sorry, Dean. I just… I don't want you to think you're gonna be able to go back to the life you had a year ago. You're gonna have to be careful."

"I know. Don't worry, I will be. I just… I need to focus on Sam right now. I can't think past that."


	10. Chapter 10

Part 10 

They were barely passing Lincoln, NE, as dusk was settling in again. Jarod had been driving for close to 20 hours straight, and Dean had been resting for half that time, finding the motions of the car appeasing. It'd been a while since he'd felt safe enough to let his guard down and truly rest, even though the nightmares were still fractioning the sleep he was managing to salvage.

The I-80 was slowly getting busy as people went on with their daily schedule, leaving their offices to go back to their homes. It felt strange, somehow, that people had kept going on with their lives, while his had been put to a stop for the better part of last year. Then again, he'd always felt disconnected from the outside world. He used to feel that way too after checking out of a motel room, the hunt closed, and the documentation for a new case fast building up in the empty seat next to him.

"We should make a stop next chance we get. Refuel, get some food and coffee," Jarod offered, barely suppressing a yawn.

Dean felt stiff and tired, and he knew Jarod was probably ten times worse. He had to admit he was feeling grateful for having been given the opportunity to put some sleep between the events of the past 48 hours and now; but now that he felt as rested as he could, he craved the feeling of the wheel in his hands, of the engine responding to the pressure of his foot on the gas pedal.

The gas station was just off the interstate, but it wasn't packed with commuters, and they immediately found a free gas pump.

"Why don't you fill it up, and I'll go re-stock on food?" Jarod offered, already half gone, not even waiting for a reply.

When he was done, Dean sat on the hood of the car, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He hit speed dial #1, hoping his Dad would pick up when he saw the caller ID.

"This is John Winchester."

Fuck. Straight to voicemail. Where was he? And why wasn't he answering? Damn it, Dean hadn't talked to the man in over seven months, hadn't seen him for a while longer; and now that he was finally out of the Hell hole, his own father couldn't bother to pick up the phone?

"Hey, Dad. It's, hu…

"It's me. I'm…

"I'm okay. I guess. I'm with Jarod, we're on our way to get Sam. Just…

"Where ARE you, Dad ? I need…

"Just, call me."

Dean silently hoped that his father was alright, and that he was just being an asshole. He tried to quiet the nagging feeling in his gut that was telling him shit was about to hit the fan.

Putting the phone back in his pocket, he looked around before settling his eyes back on the road in front of him. The sky wasn't as clouded as it had been around Chicago, and it was lighting up with reds and oranges, the clouds turning a bright pink as the sun finished its course.

"Found these," Jarod said, dangling up a pack of M&M's in front of him. He smiled at him, eyes sparkling with a mischievousness Dean hadn't seen in a lot of people.

"M&M's for breakfast?! Are you serious?"

"I dare you to tell me you haven't missed them."

Dean chuckled, rolling his eyes. And yes, absolutely. He had.

Jarod was about to open the door on the driver's side, but Dean hadn't moved, eyes still fixed on the sky in front of him. He felt the car lower a bit further as Jarod sat on the hood next to him, tearing the bag of candy open, offering it to Dean.

"You're right, you know," Dean finally said as he popped a green chocolate-covered peanut in his mouth. "I have missed it. All of it."

Jarod smiled.

"First time I broke out, I couldn't get enough of it. The way the sun felt on my skin, or the wind against my cheek…"

"I was more thinking of beer and onion rings."

Jarod laughed.

"I'll tell you something else," Dean said, eyes moving to meet Jarod's.

"Yeah? What's that?"

"From now on? I get to drive."

_***_

Dean had driven for a good 15 hours before Jarod had coerced him into riding shotgun again, but it had been the best 15 hours Dean had had in a long time. The music had blasted for the last few hours, as soon as Jarod had woken up, and Dean was now trying to get Jarod into all the music he'd missed.

They'd switched again halfway between Salt Lake City and Reno, allowing Dean to take another quick nap, but he'd quickly decided he'd rather have his music than Jarod singing "99 bottles of beer on the wall" over and over again. He actually didn't think he'd ever witnessed anyone go all the way to the end of the song.

He instead turned the music back on, satisfied to hear Kashmir play through the speakers.

"I can't believe you never heard about Led Zeppelin before. Dude. Seriously," Dean said again, as they got to Sacramento.

"In my defense, I never got anyone to introduce me to it. And I've been busy discovering other stuff."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Cockroach motels, PEZ dispensers, Oreos, you know…"

"Yeah, well. Music is the best thing out there. Well, my kind of music is. Trust me, you don't want to get lost in the teenage boy-band aisle."

"What's so wrong about it?"

"You don't wanna know."

Jarod laughed at that, and Dean as the cassette over to start side 2 of _Physical Graffiti_ He tilted his head back, his fingers drumming against his legs to the rhythm of the music.

"I'm not gonna be finishing the trip with you," Jarod said, out of the blue, right in the middle of the song.

Dean's hand immediately went for cassette player, turning the sound down.

"Come again?"

"I'll be stopping in Sacramento. I'm sure you can drive alone from there, it's not far anymore. And I don't think it'd be simple to explain to your brother, whom you haven't seen in 4 years, exactly how I fit in…"

"Yeah, you're right."

Dean didn't know why, but he felt strange about the idea of them parting so soon. He knew it was better that way. Hell, he really didn't want to have to introduce Sam to Jarod. The main reason, which he hadn't told Jarod, being that telling Sam what he'd been up to for the past seven month wasn't part of the plan, and never would be. Not if he could help it.

Still, Jarod had been the first human being he'd felt a connection to in a while. Well, a healthy one at least; he'd been the one to get him out of the Centre, to ease him back into the real world.

Even though it hadn't been more than four days ago, Dean knew he had to adjust fast, to do his best to pretend he was all right. He couldn't allow himself to waver, not when Sam was in such clear danger. Not when his father was missing.

And Jarod had been a great help in that short period of time. He'd helped him realize he couldn't let himself dwell on the past, no matter how close that past was. He had to focus on the days ahead, on the good luck which meant he was finally out there, breathing and eating and driving as a free man once again.

They stopped for an hour in Sacramento, giving Jarod time to get a room at a motel. Dean jumped at the chance to grab a quick shower and some solid food.

"Well. I guess this is goodbye," Dean said with a shrug, trying to pretend it was easy.

"Hey. Here's my phone number. It's a safe line too. You can call whenever you want. If you need anything, too. And I do mean, anything."

Dean smiled. "Yeah, thanks man."

"Good luck on finding your dad, Dean."

Oh, he'd be needing a lot of luck all right.

_***_

"Sam ! Come on, we were supposed to be there like, 15 minutes ago!" Jess called, attaching the last of her earrings, completing the attire of the perfect nurse slut.

"Do I _have_ to?" Sam pouted, following her.

"Yes! Come on, it'll be fun!"

"And where is your costume?" Jess scowled

"You know how I feel about Halloween," he reminded her, approaching and putting his arms around her.

"Yes, I do. And I think it's ridiculous. You're basically gonna be the only guy around who didn't bother to dress up, Sam!"

"Then we'll say I'm dressing up as a college student…"

"Oh, that's rich! Now come on, move your ass. It's Halloween! The night of the monsters! Let's celebrate!" she yelled from the next room, as Sam grabbed his wallet and keys.

"Celebrate. Right."

_***_

Halloween was already over by the time Dean left Sacramento, November 1st just starting, and he'd be getting to Palo Alto well into the night. He'd have to break in to get to Sam, then. He hoped he was still strong enough to climb up to whatever apartment Sam had moved to.

It'd been a while since he'd come to check up on the kid. Last time he'd come, Sam was moving out of his dorms to get an apartment with the beautiful girl he'd met. Dean really wondered how his awkward kid brother had managed to score such a babe…

California was much warmer than the East Coast had been, and Dean hadn't been used to such heat in a long time. The sublevels of the Centre were always cool, most of the time too chilly and uncomfortable. It was nice to feel some heat again, especially when it was coupled with the cool wind blowing from the ocean.

2 am. Dean checked his phone again, startled when he realized he'd gotten a voicemail. He put the device to his hear, and felt his heart skip a beat when he heard his father's voice.

He could barely make out any sound, only the words "not safe", EVP jamming the message. At least now he knew his father was alive and still out there, though he couldn't think of a reason why John would refuse to communicate directly with his son.

He quickly dug a recorder out of the glove compartment of the car, and registered the message. Re-running the message his dad had left him at a higher speed, he felt confusion overtake him as he heard a woman's voice come out.

_Never go home…_

Well. At least he had something to tell his brother.

_***_

"Dean? What are you doing here?!"

"Well, I was looking for a beer…"


	11. Chapter 11

Author's notes :

Special big thanks to **fickleanactoria** (over at lj) for her extra fast beta job, and her incredible insight into what I've written.

I would like to thank **tigriswolf** (over at lj ) for her help, along with other people whose name I've lost. If you are one of these people, please stand up and I will add your name on this post :)

This idea jumped in my head a long, long time ago, back when I first discovered season 1. Seeing the Winchesters impersonate cops, firefighters, doctors, etc reminded me of the amazing show that first got me into fandom : _the Pretender_. I've had many crossover ideas, but the idea of studying the dynamics between Lyle and Dean made me chose this plot over any other.

I love the idea of Dean being smarter than he thinks, something Kripke led us to believe early on in season 1. I've talked with Anactoria about the way Dean should break, and how. From what I gather from the show, Dean is a true hero, and is defined by his deeds. The ability to do good and help others is what defines him, and I think you could do anything to him without breaking him, only bending, if he can hold on to that. This may be somehow poorly approached in the story, but Dean doesn't break until he loses the illusion of being "the good guy".

I also talked about the sexual content with her. At first, I thought about labeling it as dub-con, but to her it feels more like non-con than most non-con she'd red, and I started realizing that the two scenes are indeed quite violent psychologically. I hope the scenes didn't bother you too much, and I do realize they don't feel necessary for the story, but I assure you they are for later installments.

Speaking of which, I have 2 other stories about this size that I want to write before I feel like I'm done with this verse. I have no idea if it'll take me a year, two or 5 to write the next one (I've already started but am having a lot of trouble). I do know that harassment from readers would help, though !

I've had a lot of music to listen to during this writing. Among other things, Joan Baez's version of "And it's all over now, Baby Blue" (written by Bob Dylan) was a huge inspiration. EZ3kiel's "Lethal Submission" also gave me a lot of insight into what the story will become, about the show in general, and the boys on the road. You should definitely check it out now.

I'd love to make a video trailer for the show. I already have the song and the ideas, but lack the skills and the software, so if anyone feels like giving a contribution, I'd love that !

And that's about all I've gotta say for now ;)


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